


Please, Shake Me

by Ephemeral_Everlast



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Romance, multi-chaptered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephemeral_Everlast/pseuds/Ephemeral_Everlast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn't make him a coward to ask for help, to accept a pledge made by the God of Thunder that would give him reprieve from terror's grip. And in the Asgardian's eyes, Steve knew Thor thought him brave for divulging in him, for trusting him with his woes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pledge Without Silence

**Author's Note:**

> What began as a one-shot became this long, four chapter story that warmed my heart in more ways than I can describe for this pairing. This piece has the pairing of Steve/Thor, with more intimacy notions coming later on in the end of the story, with friendship first and foremost. Mature, graphic at times, angst-filled, poignant in parts, and at the end, hope. A sadder version of the Captain, a comforting Thor and a subtle spatter of humor.

_Part I: Pledge Without Silence_

Sleep had never been an elusive reality, darkness and blissful subconscious filling his veins with a fair amount of peace until the sun's first light. He had no idea if it was due to the serum-induced physical strength he was bestowed, granting him with the ability to slip into dreams as easily as flipping the page of a dog-eared novel, or something internal, an amity of his thoughts giving way to rest.

It did no good to consider that the ones who crafted the elixir responsible for his hyper-sensitive condition sought perfection, a modern Prometheus that became their greatest weapon and nation's failsafe. It was all in the past, no more than a photo-album of culpability, lives and an entire country that he had unintentionally disappointed. The thought of considering himself an invaluable hero and all of the self-deprecation that came with it would only plague him; Steve Rogers, Captain Steve Rogers would find some way to heal.

Health came from unlocking that capsule of horrors, peering inside to examine the mottled and dilapidated ruins that came from it and talking about it with whoever happened to be around and willing to listen. The cost of altering his existence, the wicked notions that gave birth to the consequence of gaining far too many enemies would be under the scrutiny of his conscience the longer he shoved it to the side.

He could ask Fury for a nice therapist, a psychologist who wouldn't judge him, who would see past the muscles and physical prowess to the trembling, consternated young boy underneath a triad of red, white and blue. Surely there had to be someone who understood him, who could deal with memories of a war long since won and shoved away into dusty relics and ink-washed history books? There had to be someone.

What he was seeking, he realized at last, a grim whisper speaking to his inner-ear alone, was an ideal. Yes, he believed in humanity, so much so that he would fight any threat to the world in which he lived in, his firm sense of justice and truth uncompromising. Yes, he believed in the possibility for self-betterment, the Earth becoming a place of hope once more, after the smoke cleared and the rebirth began with the breaking dawn. But beneath that, there was no one who could share similarities with him, not a one who wouldn't inflict their personal biases on the confessions he revealed. He could see it now: narrowed eyes, inquiries dying on lips that didn't know how to form the questions, and pity taking the place of barely held together friendship. He was not only born far beyond his time, but hurled into a bewilderment of technology and social unrest that he was still not ready for. He was, at the end of the day, the greatest outcast and liability to his team, the scrawny young man again who was once so eager to prove that he was worthy to fight for his country.

Worthiness. In God's eyes, he was worthy. But in the eyes of far too many, he was nothing but a fraud, a fantasy woven by the media to fuel their longing for something beyond the mundane. In the eyes of his team, he was nothing but a stranger with a different dialect and background, an old man with the body of a soldier who did his best to keep them together; if one segment splintered, the rest of the kaleidoscope wheel of their almost-but-not-quite family unit would shatter entirely.

Once again, he was responsible for a greater part of the masses, people who he cared about and would die without a second thought for. And that realization, the fact that he was so heavily relied on once more collided with his mental stamina, jarred him to the point of no return. If he failed again, he would lose more than his life, but the lives of his comrades, if not the world entire.

The past coalesced and the pattern repeated into the future, though his mission was to keep that from becoming true once more.

It should have been apparent to him from the very beginning how fragile the operation of S.H.I.E.L.D really was. They saved the Earth, yes. They stood as one and remained firm in their beliefs that if they were called to duty once more, they would dispose of any threats, yes. But as to bonding and really getting to know one another...that was a reality that had yet to be determined. There were stories, personal details that he was completely ignorant of when it came to these people. He had led men into battle and knew their life's stories, tales of their wives and loved ones, children and siblings that meant the world to them, along with their aspirations and ambitions. To this present team, he knew next to nothing. He had no idea how Black Widow managed to maintain a tandem of charisma and brutality, where Clint had learned to hit his bullseye without fail with each and every notch of his crossbow, and where Tony's plethora of wide-ranging habits came from. Bruce he could have something in common with, but with the way he created purposeful distance registered as a "do not proceed" sign of caution to anyone in the near proximity. And Thor was a god in another realm, a place that stupefied his mind to a state of he didn't know was possible, and complete with a weapon that could control storms, he was mighty intimidated of him.

God worked in mysterious ways and never gave mankind more than what they could handle. He was the Captain, Atlas, a stronghold and the needle and thread all in one and he would stand with the team, for it was for the good of the whole.

None of the encumbering duties had ever disturbed him until now, now when the safe-haven of a world he had saved from war once relied heavily on his aid once more.

The one advantage he had foolishly believed he had left was his ability for sound slumber; even that had become haunted as of late.

Dreams had been either vivid imaginings or non-existent for him up until this point; there was no middle piece when it came to his slumber.

These times were different. From the moment his head touched his pillow-case, a twilight sleep invaded his mind, tugging his eyelids, his body curling around his mattress out of old habit. But no true rest came. Hypnagogic elements consumed his heart, a state of mind that he dreaded with every waking hour before it was lights out. Not only due to the lack of sleep, or the acting charade he drilled himself on to disengage worry in his comrades, but because of the understatement of this place of mind: in nearly every way, he deserved this, a sin that he had to come to terms with, suffer through, and endure until he emerged as a new man, a hero that was ready to face any manner of foe that threatened the world he was in charge of saving.

This state of mind went far beyond the simple word of nightmare. His eyelids became the backdrop and curtain for a whirlwind of terrors far beyond his control, seizing his rationale and scattering it with the remnants of logic and sanity that he attempted to preserve in these bleak times. His prayers were whispered, hushed pleas that begged God to take him out of this, to give him one night of pure rest, a sleep he sought with a greed that shamed his heart.

And sins, he considered with a muffled whimper, couldn't go unpunished.

Every heightened aspect of his senses was under siege, a battalion of torment that spread through his flesh, embedding itself in his pores, his blood tarnished with the scent of smoke and bullet-fire, the permanent stench of death permeating his gear. The cloying moment stretched, giving him the full experience of a scare that rattled his self-reserve: living through every moment of persecution, time and again until his dream self screamed for an end, shrieking until his voice was a raw tangle of begging phrases and half-remembered prayers.

The end he sought was never within his reach. There was Bucky, his eyes vacant as he came to terms with his own death, free-falling to the extent of his own mortality. His friend, gone, and with luck serving the Lord at His feet.

In his mind however, Bucky became savage, a partially limb-less specter who screamed in his face, asking him to save him, over and over again until his ears knew nothing but the echo of what he in all of his parades and campaign boasting left out: that even Captain America couldn't stretch his arms out that far to save his friend, that he was after all, _painfully human_.

There were his old bunk mates, blown to pieces because of a call he had made that in turn, ended their short lives. This he knew to be false, for that had never happened. Memories were beginning to amalgamate with fake reality, truth becoming nothing more than a disjointed pattern of happenstance and pain, stolen chance and the blood-stippled American flag that had become his signature.

In some of these visions, his enemies won. The night where the Red Skull leered over him, tearing his shield into shards of metal and paint with fingers - no, claws now, bright red - and then his face, peeling the skin until bone and screams rimmed the air with his own defeat stood out above the rest. He had paced the expanse of the room that night, his fingers reaching up to touch his face, as if to make sure it remained intact and whole, evaluating just what in the world was wrong with him.

Was he going mad then? Was he so delusional, so filled with self-hate and a pity for himself that knew no bounds, that he was beginning to create frightening illustrations of what was and never would be? What frightened him the most was, that he had no answer for that.

The following night the latest battle filled his thoughts, a world plunged into insanity by a tyrant whose plan prevailed. There was the nation he had sworn his allegiance to protect, a shadowed version of the Earth as it was ruled mercilessly by Loki. Hundreds, thousands, millions bowed on one knee to the god of green and gold, his horns glistening, burning out his retinas, his final coherent sight before the blindness of this dream devoured him the sight of his friends, broken into bleeding pieces all around him in a mess of a human puzzle.

These were fears he knew and comprehended every morning. This, the coffee cup in his hand with the odd design and gloss, the weight of his breakfast on a porcelain plate with an equally odd design, the training tape around his knuckles; that was all real. Fear had no place here, in the waking real world he had awakened to not long ago. He had spent far too much time asleep; it was time to wake up, to embrace what he had allowed to happen to him. It was time for acceptance to be his mantra, for the smiling faces of those who he came into contact with, be they his teammates or simple occurrences in the street to reign over the disharmony of his sleeping state.

In moments of weakness however, he couldn't help but consider if God was no longer on his side. Was it a sin to allow himself to become a human guinea pig all those years ago, for the mere child that he had been to be created into a weapon outside of mortal restraint? When men played god, there were repercussions; perhaps these nightmares were the perdition that he was bestowed, a hell on earth that he deserved. God brought His beloved sleep; was he no longer His beloved?

Those moments turned into minutes which became hours on his knees, sometimes sobbing, sometimes whispering fervently that he begged for forgiveness, that all he wanted was to create a better world with the power that he had been given for the good of all. The folly of hubris, of pride; was that was this was, pride? The pride that made him believe that he could be salvaged, that his sleep could go without interruption for one night?

The serum amplified everything that was wholesome about a person, or rather, unwholesome. Did that mean that he wasn't the hero he believed himself to be at times, and was just a shade of an ideal, grasping for air when there was nothing to reach for? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

Exhaustion claimed him, granting him the reprieve of a few hours at most before the visions returned. And he was sick of it, so very sick of waking up screaming, of waiting for the onslaught of terror to cease the wave of nightmare.

A small part of him, a part that festered in doubt, stirring the black parts of his spirit told him that the reason he sought out his comrades in the middle of the night was not to keep them company, but for his own selfish pursuits. He wanted companionship, especially if he knew one of them was up, late into the night with their own fulfillment's and work.

Bruce didn't mind when he perched on his stool, asking as many questions as he could form about everything in his lab, to the multi-colored liquid in beakers to the glowing fonts of Stark-related technologies Tony built himself, enabling an easier access to data. Steve offered reassuring smiles and promised him that he would do his best to keep his friend's mind at ease, that way "the other guy" wouldn't emerge at random and destroy the mansion.

Natasha and Clint were never around in the late night, but they were always up with the dawn, in and out of the kitchen as fast as fleeting shadows come the sunlight, scattering to their own business. They would greet him and exchange a few words, but they didn't know one another nearly enough to begin physical conversations. He asked if he could begin training with them in their area of expertise, and to his disbelief, they both agreed. Olive branches, when they were created with consternation and desperation were still olive branches.

The rare times when Bruce fell asleep, passed out on a cot that he bolted to the wall of his lab, Steve made his way to Tony's personal work area, knowing full well that he would be awake. The man always managed to run well on four hours of sleep when he was working, and with an endless supply of alcohol, his genius was an unstoppable impetus. The man was infuriating at times, swore like a few commanding officers he had known seventy years previous put together, and went against a lot of - if not everything - what he believed in. Nevertheless, he had witnessed first hand his bravery, the way he would sail on the winds of his equations and devices to save the world, sacrificing his own well-being for a world that he had come to terms with. From what little he knew of the man's past, Tony always had a way of getting even with those who had wronged him, no matter how evil or powerful they appeared to be to the public eye. He was stubborn, foolish, and someone he respected fully.

Tony agreed to his company, allowing him to sit wherever he wanted as he crafted blueprints and algorithms that appeared to him as another language, weapons that would preserve the world's amity with each other, codes that were locked away in an uncharted facet of the man's brain that only knew the company of pens and glass tumblers. He never asked him if there was something wrong, and contrary wise, Steve remained silent about the questions he had, the inquiries that he wanted to talk about. He figured it wasn't his business to force open closets that held more than the remnants of skeletons in their black depths; if his teammates wanted to talk to him, he had made it perfectly clear that he would listen.

Regardless, he did manage to learn from each and every one of them. Clint revealed a hint to a clue about how he aimed so well from impossible distances, Natasha taught him a few Russian phrases and how to not only evade enemies, but take them out as efficiently as possible in the shortest amount of time. Bruce seemed to be smiling a lot more than usual, and he always greeted him with a handshake and acknowledgment whenever they were in each other's presence. Tony shared with him the secrets of the perfect vodka and offered him enough drinks to render an elephant comatose on many an occasion, regardless of his body's immunity to alcohol.

His tactic was working, no matter the selfish inception that it derived from, a part of him that would do anything to fill the void of personal loneliness and solitude, so much so that he would more or less force himself to learn more about his comrades to deter self-oblivion.

And despite nostalgic talks about rockets, nostalgia and still-budding friendship, the terrors remained. There was no pill he could take for insomnia, no drug that would bless him with a drowsy haze, a state he often scolded Tony for participating in every so often, nothing that would work. The very endurance he was granted, a zenith that freed mortal limitations gave way to the curse of the inability of a night's sleep.

"Need something off your chest?" Tony always did manage to come up with conversation points, where other members of the team preferred companionable silence.

"Just a nightmare. Peggy Carter's face was melting from a photograph she gave me during my final mission." Something like concern, ladened with lust for the woman of the past flitted over Tony's features, granting Steve with a comment about how it was a shame, for that face was certainly something else. He also stated that nightmares were never as bad if he gave it a voice, and then broke into a small explanation about the brain and how dreams were science.

This was just the way Tony was: consoling at times, but with an undercurrent of apathy, seeking answers to everything in fact, dictating specific emotions for humor and vanity's sake. He had Steve's respect as a man and an undeniable hero. But he wasn't what he needed at the moment, not another speech about neurons and synapses.

What he needed was sleep. He bid Tony goodnight, convincing the man as he gripped the door jamb that no, he hadn't offended him, his lips pinching with a strained smile. Within a few minutes of an almost-apology, he was back to face the barrage of horrors for the second time that night. He wished for a stalemate, a way to meditate himself to a state of blissful unconsciousness, his body hovering just over the riverbed of what he couldn't undo and the things that had yet to become him, a cessation of his spirit that mingled into a place that he didn't wish to surface from for at least a few hours.

They began once more, illustrations that painted his comrades in blood, a canvas dripping with a claret sheen, friend turning against friend, the mansion in ruins as fire leached from the skies. It was the closest thing to hell that he had known, a hell in which Bruce chased him through a dripping wood, a forest of rot and bone, Natasha's screams mingling with Clint's cries of elation, Loki's control reigning dominion over his mind. His feet hit the earth with a frantic padding, crunching in metal until he recognized it as not only metal, but as the Arc Reactor that kept Tony alive. Somewhere, in this ochre-shaded madness, Tony had breathed his last.

Thor was in the clouds, fighting against the skies as it spewed fire and lightning, his storm turning against him. His screams were not in usual triumph, for in an obliteration of trees, god-made metal crumbled to an ash that rendered Mjolnir useless as the last of the god's life fled, the world churning into a blaze of hell.

In his mind, he realized with a barely repressed scream, one that lacked the will-power and energy to properly form the cry, was that he was an orphan once more.

Darkness greeted him, the darkness of 3:45 a.m, his room a humid space of walls and covers, sweat and nightmare aromas. His chest had been heaving and as consequence, his heart thudded between his ribs as if he had circled the whole of Manhattan that night, if not the once Brooklyn that had been home. Tony would be awake, and maybe Bruce. He'd lift himself from the bed, have some water and maybe a shower, and begin the day anew.

But he couldn't. There was no personal volition to leave the bed, to dismiss the illusions as simply that. Was there a villain he had been unaware of, a nemesis that slithered past Fury's all-encompassing wisdom that was toying with his sanity? Was Amora out there, weaving some semblance of magic, attempting to lower his guard to create a counterattack of some sort? Could Loki have the free picking of his mind, disassembling his strengths to find the mottled and endless weaknesses of his heart?

In the gloom, he reminded himself that he had been through much worse. He valued his strength and the abilities he had been granted from the serum, valued the lessons that he had been taught about loss, about what it meant to sacrifice. A born leader, a stronghold carved from the marble of every adversity that created the being in this bed, a creature that wasn't sure if he was losing his mind, or his ability to communicate with the people under his roof.

He needed, above all, someone to confide in.

The knock pounding through his door would either solidify his conviction or destroy it entirely. Whoever it was either had some urgent plan to escape the mansion, for Tony had managed to light part of it on fire again on accident, or they had heard him screaming. Screams led to talking which led to confessions, something he was willing to engage in.

Besides, at the end, all of them were very much human.

Except for the Asgardian god, - a sleepy, but concerned one at that - that was waiting outside of his doorway. Steve wasn't sure when Thor had returned to the mansion, but he hadn't been at dinner that night. If he had just gotten back and was yearning for sleep, his screams had more than likely killed off any chance of restful slumber for the moment.

"What troubles you so, Captain?" Despite obvious fatigue and the half-light of the room, Thor's eyes were bright, filled with concern for him, and oddly inquisitive towards the conduct of such a ruckus late in the night/morning.

He was too tired to do anything but oblige, letting Thor into his room at his gentle prompting when a simple dissuasion wasn't enough to abate Thor's curiosity. The lights came on when he asked them to - a new modification Tony bestowed to every room - and he sat on his mattress, absently running a hand through his bed-mussed hair.

"Nightmare. A pretty bad one too." The scraping of a chair alerted him that Thor wasn't leaving anytime soon, despite how late it was and how tired the god must have been.

Silence resonated, the tenor of the god's voice slicing any implication of quiet-time. "I have found that if I give voice to the petty fears, the great ones always seem manageable."

Steve raised his head, meeting even blue eyes, eyes with a wisdom in the electric current of sapphire. Thor's hair was sleep-pressed and tangled, a line crossing his cheek where it had once been ensconced in pillows, and clad in only a pair of loose sleep-pants. He had usually slept nude - which he proclaimed without shame at the breakfast table one morning - but chose for modesty's sake to remain clothed while there was a female warrior in the house, that female warrior being Natasha. He appeared tired, but there was nothing but earnest care on his face, a comforting lion of a man that would snap the neck of anyone attempting to harm him hitherto. In every way, he had Thor's protection for the moment.

And with the wise words that served as nothing but relief to Steve, he found his own. Despite his efforts at saying that this would be a bit of a long story, Thor would hear none of it. He wanted to know how he was faring before he so much as thought of laying his head down for sleep once more, or so Thor stated with mirth.

The heart of the matter was revealed, leading up to when the visions began two months previous. Sugar-coating was a lie in Thor's eyes, and he didn't want to be accused of being anything of the sort. The story tumbled from his lips, doubt taking the form of syllables, his throats making sounds, the tenor of his own voice. Had he grown so quiet that he hardly recognized the octaves that his own throat could make? He spoke of the serum, how all of those years ago, the scientists might not have made the best choice in choosing someone so unstable for the job, no matter his experience thus far. He spoke of his fear that God was punishing him for going against the fabric of nature, of being the by-product of a god-play that would serve as nothing but this night-time anguish.

He had always been good at talking, at striking up conversations and getting to know people. But for whatever reason, there was some sort of block keeping him from releasing his guard, from melting the steel from his mind and heart.

Halfway into a small explanation, he uncovered an instant of both verbal and mental clarity, the root of fear: if he was plunged into a situation that involved the renouncing of his transient entitlement to his life, another sacrifice, he would cease to adapt. Change was necessity, part of the world and America, for without it, direction would stop altogether.

He would wake up to more wars, to the endless ways humans pointed the world towards its own self-implosion.

If he was weak, if he gave a voice to something that was wrong, he would be just another weak link, something that would be severed before he so much as had the chance to speak up. As childish as that sounded, without a shred of the valor and bravery so many people claimed he had within him, that was what was wrong: fear, a fear that refused to leave, a fear that clung to his skin, tattering his sleep.

The entire time he spoke, he noted Thor's silence, a respectful quiet without so much as a grunt of approval; he wasn't even sure if he had swallowed once. Thor spoke not a word for the full hour that he had divulged in the god until he was certain that Steve had nothing else to add to his admission - an admission that shocked the speaker about as much as the listener - before opening his mouth.

"I am honored that you bestowed me with your trust, Captain." It was all eloquence and waxing loquacious with Thor, but Steve knew it was the furthest thing from a prideful air. As much as Thor boasted, he did so with such enthusiasm that after awhile, it was either the most annoying or endearing trait for all in his company. It was hard to roll your eyes to someone who had such jubilant energy all of the time, a passion for living that belonged to the golden-years of youth. Especially since he was genuine and completely honest with those in his company.

The Norse God shifted his weight, pectorals meeting the back of the chair, his feet providing stability for the rest of his body with the leverage. He was an imposing creature, all muscle from training, biceps and triceps rippling with a strength that was earned and forged through planetary battles, without any form of a serum. Whereas there had once been arrogance, there was humility in his stance, a humble quality that swept away the taint of past follies. At least, that was how Steve had always perceived him. Steve had the feeling that he was one of those people who would sit with you and talk for hours about your problems, or the big brother he had always secretly yearned for, one who would make it his personal mission to see that the Brooklyn bullies paid for their insolence, even in the 40's.

"It's Rogers, Steven Rogers. You don't need to be so formal; I'm the one that's keeping you up." Thor smiled, a full-toothed grin that lit up his eyes, a sapphire current charging not only lapis depths, but a coiling warmth in Steve's stomach lining.

"Rogers it is then. Or as everyone else calls you, Steve?" Steve nodded, feeling as if Thor had become a type of therapist for him, and he was gliding past the introductory period into an uncharted area of their friendship and subtle stages of still-getting-around-to-it bonding. "Steve, you were right to tell someone about these night visions; you were in fear, and the way to fight fear is ultimately to fight?" Thor clenched the edge of the chair for emphasis, his features a caricature of a battle-ready expression.

"Yeah...yes. But I couldn't think of anything other than their faces. It's...it's as if whenever I close my eyes, I see them. My failures, the people I couldn't save." He licked his lips, his saliva tasting bitter to his tongue. The past was the past, but he hadn't the proper time to physically deal with the drastic shift in his life, much less his surroundings. When could he have come to terms with the transpirations? When he was submerged 10,000 feet below in the North Atlantic?

Now. Now was when he would deal with this, no matter if it took a re-animation of skeletons in a steadily opening closet. "I thought it might go away on its own, or that I was cursed or damned or something."

Thor chuckled low in his throat, a sound of comforting mirth alone, the furthest thing from a mockery. "Steven, you are the furthest thing from damned." In the tenor of his voice, a timbre that dripped with the faintest traces of an accent, Steve believed him. For those that didn't believe him, Steve had a feeling the god would repeat himself as many times as it took to get his point across anyone's mind. Thor did like to hear himself talk, yes, but when it counted, he was undoubtedly truthful, if not complimentary. "You're very fearful of something, of being left behind again. The enemy then is you, which is what makes this such a lofty battle to fight I am afraid."

Steve had no words, exhaustion not being the conduct of being struck suddenly mute. The epiphany was there, and it made him feel really stupid, as if he had just been thrown into battle with little more than a butter-knife and a cardboard shield when the orders had clearly been to take cautionary preparations.

All this time, all he really had to do was talk with someone, and this would go away. Not just anyone of course, but a member of his team, someone who he could trust and firmly rely on. But the problem linked to that, trailing after it like a well-worn chain of encumbering debt was that he was terrified. Terrified of being labeled as a failure, as just another failed experiment in the name of science, marked and labeled for the trash receptacle, dismissed and tossed aside as if he had become a rusted rapier, too frayed for use. He feared abandonment, betrayal, the thought that just as he was beginning to lay down some roots, he would be torn from the earth before the germination of sentiment could even have the chance to begin.

That's what happened after all: he had made plans to save the world, stop the war, and even learn to dance. And then any thought of a permanent guarantee was stripped from him, grids and colors revealing the bombs in the plane, the truth that, unless he went for a long swim in the water, he wouldn't make it home for an 8 o'clock date.

History repeated; he was the embodiment of America after all, and that he knew for certain. Would he be placed into those situations again, rendered in the glass-cage of immortality, the world shifting and flitting, but he remaining constant? Men were not made to be timeless weapons.

It had become habit to murmur prayers, Bible scriptures and pieces of sermons he had heard more than sixty years before. His lips formed the words, his eyes closing, the mantra and knitting of his fingers keeping him physically together, connected; if he released himself, then what? Then what would come of him?

A hand clapping his shoulder cut off his prayer in mid-sentence, his eyes meeting an inquiring Norse God's. There was a question in Thor's eyes, his lips parting to form the words, but he never did. In the silence, the silence of a gentle scrutiny, a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, Thor respected his business and his religion as well, knowing that choosing the right form of comforting him was essential to keeping him sane. He was still sane, wasn't he?

For one horrifying moment, Steve believed himself to be in another form of nightmare, one that was more corporeal than all the others put together. He had been able to perceive his senses in the other dark imaginings, so why not this one? Why was this any different? Would Thor become a multi-armed aberration with fangs and claws, hell-bent on tearing out his throat and killing off every member of the mansion?

The hand on his shoulder was strong, the fingers warm, heat pressing into his shoulder blade in the most gentle way, reassurance undulating in waves from the god's hand. For a being that was capable of summoning the storms, of fighting terrible entities from deep space, he had a surprisingly soft touch, reserved for those who had earned it.

"This is not a dream, Rogers. I feel whole, yes?" He managed a small nod, feeling a total of five-years-old again, five-years-old and learning that there was no such thing as monsters in his closet, but outside of his house in the real world of Brooklyn. "You feel your breath, your heart, the bed under your body, yes?" Another nod. Yes, this was happening, Thor wouldn't become a hideous monster, and he had actually managed to confide in a member of his team.

Reality didn't have to be so bad then.

"Then allow me to make a pledge, if you would accept it?" For whatever reason, when he pictured Thor pledging, he imagined the god standing in front of a red, white and blue backdrop, pledging his allegiance to America in the loudest voice possible, capable of rousing the entire country to a patriotic stand-still, the President weeping and cabinet members clapping. He managed a third nod, and watched as Thor eased out of the chair, the hand that was on his shoulder released, the heat dispersing as quickly as it had come. The god was then on one knee, his fist clenched to his chest, eyes glimmering with metal-threaded intensity that declared that he meant this in truth, with every fiber and cell of his body.

Thor was bowing to him and he would find out why that was within a few seconds.

"Without histrionics Steven, I pledge that, if there ever comes a day shrouded in darkness that you are cast aside, deemed unworthy by this world, I will make it my mission to find you. For gods have very long lives, and my lightning will be able to melt any ice you are placed in. If any dark time should become reality, I will find you. You have my word, as an Asgardian and as a member of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Oh. That was what he had meant by pledge. His mode of silence transitioned his mind, basking his body in the customary quiet that he knew was part of who he was now. But for someone who barely knew him, someone who knew him in battle but not on a personal level to ensure that he was given his trust and care, he had to say something. He couldn't just let silence and his inability to speak his mind hurt the god.

"I...I...thank you. Yes, thank you. You barely know me, and you've just signed up to be my personal body-guard. You're a good man." Technically, god, but Thor understood. The god's face split into a smile of genuine mirth, his cheeks filling out with a happiness that Steve had known on the faces of children when their fathers returned home from work, an innocent quality that he had seen written on the expressions of the youngsters that had seen his films so many years ago. It was a look that stated that even a god could have a sense of wonder and wisdom about him, a redeeming note to humanity. If Thor was on their side, a comforting and fiercely protective soul, the world would be just fine.

"You are very welcome." Standing up with a grace that didn't match his size, Thor gestured to Steve's bed. "Now, rest. I am thankful that you confided in me, but it's time to dream of glories undiscovered and battles that have yet to be fought."

Steve honestly believed that he could sleep now, alone, without the thought of waking up in sweat or by the sound of his own screams, but Thor would have none of it. Instead of going back to his own room for much-deserved sleep of his own, Thor took the chair that he had previously been seated in, placed his feet on the bed at an angle, and closed his eyes.

"I will be here. You rest." Steve was about to argue and say that he was a grown man, more than likely the closest person in age to Thor, but what he heard in the god's voice killed the words before they were spoken. It was the softest voice he had ever heard Thor speak in, a notch of volume barely above a whisper, filled in full with vulnerability.

This was what someone would have done for a younger brother, for a sibling that had a nightmare. This was what an older brother would do for a sister, for a brother or a cousin that crawled into bed, trembling from the dark of the night and the visions in their head. This was a more grown-up version, but it was far more than simply keeping one another company: ultimately, it was therapy for the both of them.

He had never asked what happened to Loki, if his brother had been sentenced to death or thrown into a realm without fear of the trickster escaping. He was curious with the rest of the assemble, yes, but when Thor had returned two weeks after Loki's capture, there was no approaching him with the subject. Steve had never seen anyone look more broken. Blue eyes were downcast shards of painted glass, smears of black under his eyelids exposing sleep-loss, or a complete aversion to the act in full. His movements were disjointed, his flesh and bone sorrow's puppet, tragedy trailing him wherever he roamed. The saddest part was when he kept looking up from whatever he had used to distract himself, be it a piece of technology, training, or a meal, as if expecting for someone to walk in the room, for someone to complete the circle of his life. Something was missing, but forlorn's paramour was an ill-fitted substitute.

Thor was hurting just as deeply as he was, but for a completely opposite reason. The god needed purpose, something to drive him into the creature that he once was, just so that he could be healed.

One truth was for certain, Steve considered as he settled himself in bed, listening to Thor's method of waking him up if he was to rouse - a small kick to the right calf - : the god would be in his prayers tonight, more so than before.

He wanted to say something, something of importance and healing significance that would show Thor just how deeply he appreciated this, the fact that someone cared enough to sit him down and talk and not only talk, but it never happened. Steve was greeted with a gentle snore, a sound of surprising soothing quality that ensconced itself into his mind, beneath his body.

The covers were still warm, the lights dimmed, and nightmare noted the thunder god in the room, fleeing back to the shadows from which they came.

Sleep wouldn't be an issue tonight, as it was a very certain reality.

~-~-~

_"...Cause all I'm feeling now._

_Is the weight of the world bearing down._

_I don't have answers to any of my questions anymore..."_

_End of Part I._


	2. With the Right Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romance, mature-themes, angst-ridden, comfort and with luck, a truthful continuation of two men who sought therapy and gained hope, along with much more.
> 
> The courtship will be prevalent in part three, for the story would have been far too squished had I continued on this way.
> 
> Also, thank you to those who enjoy this sadder version - if not infinitely darker part - of Steve. I really like taking apart certain characters, saying things like, "ooh, what have we here?" and rolling with it. The same goes for the Mighty God of Thunder as well. :)
> 
> Ownership has been rightly given to Jarvis.

_Part II: With the Right Words_

What made these midnight illusions so painfully difficult was the detail, the way the visions engulfed his mind, his common sense, all else canceled out with the pain of what he was forced to focus on. Had it been a normal nightmare, a hastily thrown together assembly of shapes and sounds, colors and the physical, he would have dismissed it as nothing more than a bad movie, a projection of something that his brain needed to do at night.

It wasn't. Every single night he had experienced imaginings that reduced him to nothing more than a quivering heap in his bed, sheets scattered or sometimes clung to as if his very place in the universe depended on the white of his knuckles, the clenching of his fingers to the warm fabric. The dark was a cowl, shrouding the thought of a dawn, the thought that a golden shaft of light would become a sunrise, bringing with it a new day, the clicking of the numbers on his alarm clock to his left, the thought of hope entire gone with the horrors he experienced. In those moments, he was nothing but his fear, consumed and swathed by the parasite of his own doubt, tears stinging his eyes when he considered what a weakling he had become.

When one had lost control of what their mind was capable of, he considered with exhausted wariness, that was when sanity began teetering.

This night was no different, despite the cheerful camaraderie of his own personal Norse God. Thor smiled at him, a smile so filled with cheer and warmth that he almost believed for a few hours that tonight would be the night, that tonight would be the time when he would sleep peacefully, past 4 in the morning, or 6 if he considered the optimism of wishful thinking.

It was simply that, pixie dust, a fairy-tale of a thought, slipping through his fingers with elusive fragments of his will. He closed his eyes, only to open them to the sensation of falling, spiraling to an uncertain fate, a doom marked in the chill of the wind, the frantic breath that escaped his lungs. He fought the rising urge to scream, not to give in, for somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that he was in un-restful slumber, and that control was very much his own.

The snow, the wrath of an ice storm felt so real, the crisp knives that sliced his skin to ribbons with the frost, his breath nothing more than puffs in the dark, the oblivion that swallowed not only his hope, but the thought of ever being warm again. Skin became freckled with goose-flesh, trembles escaped his skin, and despite his efforts at squeezing his mouth shut, of clamping his teeth, he screamed. He screamed and the sound echoed in his mind, reminding him that for this terrible moment, this was his slice of hell, a hell that was not fire and brimstone, but never-ending ice and hail and wind.

A forceful shove to the right of him jarred his body, his dream-self twirling to the left, flipping under and over into a darkness that was without reasonable end, his body sinking as quickly as a burdened leaf in an active body of water. Was there something after him then, in this black world, in the place where he was stripped of powers and titles, left only with petrified remains to do battle with?

Another kick to his calf sent him careening to the edge of the dream, fumbling with clawing hands out of the canvas that had been his reality, his escape evident in concerned blue eyes, the eyes of the god that perched at the side of his bed.

"Steve, please awaken. It was only a dream." He started, alert and trickling with sweat, his body trembling with imaginary frigidity. His heart couldn't seem to calm, and breathing was difficult, panic enveloping him for a few more moments. He was safe. He was here, pressed to his mattress, his bed sheets tangled in a wrinkled heap of taupe. And there was Thor, perched over him, protection tumbling from his body, sheathing him in golden heat, the warmth of the sun that hadn't existed in the past terror.

"Would you like to speak of it?" Thor had gotten into the habit of asking that every single night, just in case he had felt especially chatty. Always, Steve had been worried of being judged for weakness, for being looked down upon for what troubled his mind. It was one childish fear after another, linked in a looping mess of knots and chains, carrying on until he chose to open his mouth, to express what was wrong.

So Steve did just that, every single night: he divulged in everything that he had kept within, the words that needed to be spoken. Thor listened and once he was done - Thor had even asked, every single time without fail if he was finished "regaling his night visions" - he gave his two cents. Not only his two cents, but a fortune of advice. The Norse God always had a way of comforting him, of stating that yes, he was real and here with him, that there was no helping what one feared, and above all, that this was not his fault.

"I was falling and it was cold. It was so cold and I was scared. I thought to myself that the sun hadn't existed it was so cold. Hell is cold then." He never could form eloquent ways to describe his dreams, the words tasting funny in his mouth whenever he confessed what was bothering him. It was bittersweet: by revealing this, he was unveiling the weakness of his own soul and altering it in some sense.

He shivered, his arms pimpled with the remnants of what his mind experienced. He wasn't crazy, was he? If he could function well enough, keeping what happened at night aside, he was just as sane as the rest of the world. Getting scared made him human, didn't it?

And then the words came. He told Thor how he didn't think he would know hope, that the sun hadn't ever given him warmth, the winter shredding him to pieces. It was just the elements after all, the fear of being lost in a storm or trapped in the rain; that might have been what it was.

Steve knew he was only seeking logic, for no matter the promise of the day that would follow, he was too scared to hold on to anything less than such a truth. He asked himself why this was still happening if he was talking to someone, if he was letting a member of his team sleep with his feet on the bed, if he was telling another being that he was scared of what his mind came up with. Was he even getting better?

Despite the initial snap judgment of the Norse God somehow being unintelligent, all brawn and no brain, Thor was incredibly perceptive, which de-bunked the archetype of muscles canceling out well-placed thoughts. Somehow, Thor managed to read people's faces, their eyes and subtle shifts of expression speaking volumes full of emotion to him, as if they had opened their mouth and told him first hand. He was intuitive, and always seeking to help those who needed it. Steve had no doubt that Thor could - and once more, _would_ \- comfort anything if he was given the chance.

Meaning, that even in the dark of 1:46 a.m, Thor was able to detect the traces of woe on his face and reassure him further.

"Steve, you are not mad. You are not mad, and you are not damned." The god's brow wrinkled in thought, realization spilling into a saddened down-turning of his lips. "This might not be working, these methods. If you still do not feel safe in your own room, in a place that is protected by one such as I, then I must be erring in some way."

Steve knew three things from that statement, facts that he wouldn't have thought twice about. Rather, the truthful tabulation that he hadn't known how to consider until right then. One, that Thor was not turning this around to make this about him. The god was many things and had been many things before he became a thriving part of the Avengers' Assemble, but he was not so vain as to make someone else's anguish about him. Two, that Thor was chastising himself out loud, similar to someone pacing as they thought or spoke aloud to an empty room. It was just the way that Thor organized his thoughts, which was easy enough to dismiss for the middle-ground of apathy and self-doubts of his own. And three, the most painful of the little-known list that made the god who he was, was his need to be tactical.

This trailed, like a drop that became a steady-flowing rivulet of blood to the wickedness that was and ever would be Loki. Steve knew it wasn't his business, but it was apparent to him where this led. After all, if he had been in Thor's position, he would be feverishly seeking a way to fill his spirit with something that wouldn't remind him of his brother, a reality in which he had no need to rely on a creature of mischief that had not only betrayed Midgard but sibling bonds in full. Thor didn't want to have to ask someone for advice, for Steve figured that he had usually turned to Loki for an inquiry he had on whatever situation he was in, be it in jest or austerity. If Steve analyzed the revelation further, he would say that it physically pained Thor that he didn't know the answers, that he couldn't rely on the one person he thought he had the eternal trust of.

Steve sat up, rubbing his hands over his forearms to ignite partial warmth through his limbs. "No, don't think like that. It's alright, really. I'm glad you're here with me. This was much harder to deal with when I was alone." That was the truth of the matter, and he hoped that Thor would understand that, that he would never be dishonest with him. How could he, when he had taken the time to help him like this?

The god smiled, and the darkness didn't seem quite so black. Thor saw the truth clearly, be it with past experience behind him or his natural perception.

"I am still honored that you trust me with this." Steve understood that statement as well, a meaning that went far beyond an echo of a reply of gratitude. That was what Thor needed: trust. Who knew that Steve's pains would equate to the god's ability to be healed? And in return, Steve was given someone to talk to, a companion when everyone else was asleep or out of the realm of understanding that was a chasm too vast to breach at this point. He and Thor were alike, both in their sorrows and their current state: two outsiders from two completely different points in time, joined by happenstance.

It was Steve's turn to smile. "Of course. I don't think I could talk about this with anyone else. I mean, I could. It just wouldn't be the same."

Thor nodded his assent, pleasure seeming to be etched permanently into his features, his eyes aglow. "Are you certain you do not wish to be moved, to have a different room, or someone else to engage in conversation about this with? Albeit, my pledge still rings true to my past word." Steve wouldn't have heard it before, but in that small oration, vulnerability dripped from every syllable. Thor was concerned that his efforts would all be for naught, that Steve would continue falling into nightmares and that everything he had done proved as a stalemate to his sanity, if not an addition to the terrors. He was desperate, Steve figured, to prove that he could do something right, help a member of his team do battle with something that went far beyond anyone else's aid.

Steve reached forward, clapping the god's shoulder. "I'm sure. I'll stay in my room, and if something doesn't change, I'll let the Director know." He licked his lips, forming his next words carefully. "You've done nothing but help me, and I'm glad it's you here, that you're helping me with this."

Beside himself, he felt a shiver scuttle over his skin. The thought of being plunged into that winter abyss had given him a case of the shakes that had yet to subside. His hand was still on Thor's shoulder, and the god felt his body tremor with a chill that no amount of blankets or warm showers could fix.

"You are shaking." Thor sat up from the chair that had become a makeshift bed for him out of his own volition, stretched his back with a small pop, then settled on the mattress without hesitance. He scooted Steve over as if he weighed nothing more than a blanket full of feathers and though Steve wanted to protest, to say that he really didn't need for Thor to go to such lengths for he had already done so much for him this night, he couldn't bring his mouth to work properly. These words wouldn't come.

"If you are comfortable with the thought of me offering my warmth, I will." The thought served as temptation, not only because of the personal warmth about him, a heat emitting from the god like an ever-radiating sun, the sun that was non-existent in the terror, but because of the protective element, the thought of _being held_. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been held, much less offered in such a polite way.

He tucked himself against Thor's chest, his right cheek pressing against the flannel of Thor's night-shirt. Despite his half-dressed state on the first night when their "arrangement" had been born, Thor insisted on being fully-dressed for modesty, a shirt covering his chest for Steve's sake. For, he was the prudent one, the old-fashioned one that had once believed it was just down-right odd that someone would go to bed nude. Propriety really had nothing to do with healing a super-soldier and an afflicted Norse God, but Thor insisted.

This was for him, this embrace, the heat, the way he meshed so neatly against Thor's collarbone. The words he was asked to speak were for his sake and his sake alone, even though Thor deserved the same opportunity to confess his sadness, what troubled him. Arms circled his shoulders, a large but gentle hand settling against his shoulder blade, Thor's body becoming a cage that guarded him of his own insecurity, what haunted him in the witching hour.

Or, he considered with a half-formed thought, perhaps Thor was cold as well.

Thor's voice was the tenor of a lion's growl to sleeping cubs, a deep octave that would have protected with the timbre alone. "Is this permissible to you, Steven?"

The heat that snaked up his spine, jolting his nerves and blood cells with electricity had everything to do with what had been said. Even still, after Steve had given him a thumbs-up that it was alright to embrace him like this, to sleep with him for comfort's sake, Thor was still asking permission. In the day, they were men with shared burdens. But in the night, they were vulnerable creatures, two beings that were just trying to make sense of the fate delivered to them.

In that way, the way that stated they were very much alike, alike and comforted by one another's presence, Steve nodded. He murmured against a pectoral, a muscle that emanated physical and spiritual warmth, that yes, this was more than okay.

"Sleep, Rogers. I am here." Yes, yes he was. And that truth was what made flames spike in his gut, warping his insides into a conflagration, something he'd always felt when watching a pretty girl dance, or the white-toothed smile of a friendly waitress directed at him and him alone.

Attraction. Attraction was here, and he was ensconced in it fully.

Too tired to protest, to try and dissuade himself from feeling anything but gratitude and friendship for the lion that guarded his dream world, Steve fell asleep.

And with the clock that read 8 a.m, the sunlight that threw gilded shapes around the room, he deemed Thor's method a success. That resulted in a tight, five-second squeeze, his breath fleeing for longer than what the situation expected of him. The god smiled at him, declaring that he would do this as often as he needed if it meant he was granted sleep, and Steve felt his skin growing hot.

"Thank you." _'I think I love you.'_

_ststststst_

It was a thought that was enough to make him forsake his bearings, everything he had currently been involved in going up in smoke, concentration obliterated for the sake of fear. The fear that he had tapped into a vein that was meant to remain undiscovered, a nuance of this "arrangement" that wasn't meant to be felt, end of story, period, the bystanders could go home now.

Attraction. It wasn't so far-fetched to believe that he could develop some semblance of feeling towards the one offering him what was never given before. Security, warmth, protection. But that wasn't how it should have been, what his life was meant to become. Feelings, nobility and keeping the world safe from any of the shortcomings that came of it, yes. But the stirring of heat in his insides, the pooling warmth in his gut that fled to every angle and crevice of his being? No. It wasn't borne from anything other than what the Norse God was bestowing so selflessly to him. After all, he had always been a sucker for those who admitted their feelings and were genuine people. There was no need for it to be a bigger deal than he had made it out to be, painting a masterpiece out of something that needed to remain a simple ink and charcoal rorschach, if not a blank canvas.

It was a fleeting fancy, a moment of weakness that was amplified by crippling loneliness, by his feelings of understanding that he was an outsider, a lost creature that was expected to lead a team to victory, to a point on the unknown horizon that he didn't think he believed in anymore. It was a fever of the blood-stream, a contagion that repulsed and gravitated towards him all at once, at the very same moment that a thought was created, when he was in Thor's company.

Nothing that couldn't be sweated out.

Which was why he found himself here, hour after hour, drilling himself on his training. Weights were lifted, muscles burning with the effort, the steady sounds of bars and metal clicking soothing to his thoughts. It was mindless, deliberate and precise; logic was what he needed, not puppy love for someone who saved him in a moment of weakness. That wasn't fair to Thor, to someone who was in as much, if not infinitely more torment than he was.

He ran laps until numbers blurred, his calf muscles bulging with the strain, heart thudding in his head, a steady reminder of his mortality. This blood, this body made him human, no matter how long he would live, what his serum would give him for an undetermined period of time. Humanity was _here_ , threading through his veins with red and white cells, with this shortness of breath, with the patina of sweat over his skin. This was living, something he could control, a constant rationale that had composed his life hitherto.

What he couldn't control terrified him. He couldn't control the way Tony made jabs about what had made him so special, though the comment had been made in the heat of a moment of rage in the early stages of the team's disharmony with one another. He couldn't find a way to come to terms with what had happened to him so many years ago, actions that built the man - not a monster, not a lab rat, not a first-rate experiment - but a man of fault and power alike.

Foolishly, he thought he could control the organ that danced beneath his skin for far more than exercise. And that was enough to send him running another ten laps, sprinting until his legs gave out, his world spinning and careening in on itself, imploding and rebuilding.

He was running, running from possibility and chance. After all of that, after everything he had been through, was he still just the scared little boy from Brooklyn, the boy who would have done nearly anything to prove that he was worthy to fight for his country, to be recognized, to be worthy of respect?

Change was possible, for enough of it had happened in his lifetime for him to believe any different. If the world could turn, the earth spinning beneath his feet even though he couldn't physically feel it, if the stars could die, only to be reborn, if people could make better laws and if men could strive to be so much better than they had once built themselves to be, then why was he incapable of such feats?

He wasn't. He couldn't have been without the element of change, without the desire for something more than the bewildering world, the poisoned hand of fate he had been handed.

_'If Thor could do it, why not me?'_ He looked up to the god now more than he would have liked to admit to himself, especially in these moments of weakness that mired his sight, throwing mist across his usual cheerful demeanor. The thought was spoken in his mind, and the words might as well have ingrained themselves on his lips, tasting with a flavor that, if he hadn't sampled before, he would have been ignorant of how much he needed it, needed the influence of a savior.

This went far beyond protection, desperately seeking a face in a crowd of millions that he had even an iota of a similarity with. It was about so much more than that, for he never went into anything half-assed, without his full heart into something.

These nightmares twisted his raw emotions into something he could barely recognize. Weakness, fear, the terror he had experienced made him believe, he understood now as he remained on the textured floor of the track, that _he_ was supposed to suffer, that _he_ was supposed to be alone in this.

If he felt something, why was he denying it so passionately? Why wasn't he acting on it, like a man should be? He was still incredibly shy, yes, but that didn't mean that he couldn't at least try and do something about this, to see where such a thought went. Why not? There was the chance of denial, of unrequited feelings and the inability to reciprocate, of course. All actions had their consequences.

But by consequence, he would add to Thor's wounds, to the scars of the god who had taken it upon himself to talk him out of one of the darkest periods in his life. An admission to feelings, to "love" - for, he didn't know if it was love yet - might very well be a segment that the god didn't need to cope with at this point in time. Every single creature had their breaking points.

And that thought was the scalpel that sliced through his cloud nine, sending him free-falling back to earth once more, disoriented and to his anguish, embittered. His vision clouded throughout the rest of the day, sorrow and self-hate gnawing at his insides, twisting into a fire-frenzy of sensation whenever he so much as glanced at Thor.

_'The heart wants what it can't have. Isn't that the truth.'_

The angle of elbows and hands was as much an opium as it was a confinement, the heat of Thor's embrace; for this time alone, he cherished the warmth, gobbling it up with the ferocity of a vulture picking at fresh carrion. His eyes squeezed shut, imagining and re-imagining different scenarios that equated to a different future between him and Thor. One in which the two of them made love, were romantically together, without powers, vices and sin trailing behind them with the fitted grace of a cloak.

Human emotion pulsed through him, resonating in a dream that was unlike any he had created before. In this dream, he was taking a walk, expecting horror and villains to come around the corner, tearing his friends apart, horrifying illustrations that would allow him to awake in Thor's arms, only to have to talk about what happened. He didn't want that, to have to lean on someone.

And yet he was doing just that. With every step he took, the sidewalk splintered, civilians falling through the gaps in the street to their deaths. His mouth opened wide, screaming pleas for everyone to just listen to him, for them to stop and run, but even his voice gave way to new horrors. The buildings exploded into flames, trees and glass shattering, littering and impaling innocent bystanders into nothing more than bloody ribbons. His tears were sulfur to the air, humans choking on oxygen that was tainted by the act of him inhaling and exhaling, every act destroying the very world that he was engineered to save.

The serum was rejecting him then, turning in on itself, the underbelly of the coin revealing its intent now, now as he had just begun to settle into a new existence.

He registered movement, someone shaking him but he screamed at them to stop, because everything he did ruined another, every movement created tragedy. Hands shook him, the city becoming ash, mingled with the flames of his tears, the wailing a lament to a facet of his sadness he didn't know he was capable of feeling, much less emitting.

And then, as soon as he thought of it, the vision ended. Thor's hands were on him, but they weren't rousing him into full consciousness, in the way that he knew blue eyes to narrow, all color and pigments of unabashed concern for him. No, Thor was still asleep, and he had just rolled closer to him in the night, and in return the hands that were around him tightened. Everything was magnified in his mind after all.

Meaning, it would be possible to fall back to sleep, or just lay awake and imagine how it would feel to be cherished by the one embracing him.

"Captain, I am not so easily fooled." Despite his attempts to pretend he hadn't heard the voice of a rather bemused thunder god, his hearing was exceptional.

"I just can't fool you, can I?" Steve tried to sit up, but Thor only gripped him tighter, his hand rubbing a place in-between his shoulder blades. The sensation soothed him, so much so that a pleasured sigh slipped from his mouth. He shouldn't have created such sounds, revealed this, for that was the very thing that he wasn't supposed to be doing.

"I would be rather hurt if you tried to, Steven." The hand that was on his back traced thoughtful patterns, warm fingers pressing against his skin, as if attempting to touch the muscles deep within, the places where Steve was afraid to acknowledge, much less examine. "That is why I ask what you dreamt of. And," he added with a hint of austerity in his tone "why you appeared so downcast this evening." He couldn't hide from him. He couldn't hide one damn thing from the person who he had allowed inside.

Steve's words refused to come. His tongue was useless in his mouth, stilling and tensing whenever a thought crossed his mind, his throat rejecting the creation of sounds, the timbre and octaves that he knew to be his voice. There was nothing but silence, blessed silence from him, for he couldn't speak. If he spoke, if he so much as opened his mouth, grief and his doubt would apex, roaring into a beast of his own devisings that he didn't think he had the strength to face. Words led to trouble, led to having someone be this concerned for him that he would hold him in his sleep to fight off night visions.

Had he always been this insecure? Maybe somewhere deep beneath the surface, but it was a part he had never accepted. If he accepted it, he might have ceased to try somewhere along the way, began running and found himself in surroundings that he would have hated: cowardice. He was right back to square one once again, the realization of him earnestly believing that he was nothing more than a liability in tights, a red white and blue campaign of all show and no truth behind the words.

He wanted to change? He wanted more? Then he was going to have to open up his damn mouth and say something.

"Everything I did destroyed life. I took a few steps and the sidewalk would crumble, I'd shout or say something, and glass would break, killing the people around me. Hell, if I so much as took a breath, I'd hurt someone." All the while, in the moments where quiet was his vice, restricting the flow of necessary words, Thor never ceased the back massage. It was as much a comfort as it was a luxury, for with the applied pressure to his back, it was an act of reassurance, a silent plea for him to continue at his own pace. It was acceptance, in its most intimate form.

Intimate. Yes, they were two guys lying in bed, and he happened to be in - love? - some degree of feeling for the man, but he wasn't sure about that.

"I feel as if I'm nothing but a burden sometimes. I don't know anything about this time, and the more I push, the more the world shoves me back. I learn a few things, and ten-thousand more spring up, like weeds." The quiet pressed against his chest, stretching out until he could physically _feel_ Thor's empathy threatening to escape, wishing to envelop him in words of comfort, words he needed to hear. Steve knew this, and he killed off any notion of being self-centered for wanting them, much less needing them. "I don't think I belong here; I'm just too different to adjust."

Thor sat up, and instead of keeping Steve on the bed, he gently tugged his body, releasing his hold just enough so that they could get in a more comfortable position. Steve registered the effort of sitting up, after four hours of lying down and complied with stretching, turning his neck to the right, and then the left, shoulders and neck popping with the effort.

He had closed his eyes as he stretched, and when they opened, he noted the intensity of Thor's gaze. He was staring at him, as if analyzing or watching him for any sudden movement, for some reason. No...that wasn't quite it. He was looking at him with something akin to admiration, if not burning sentiment. Regardless of how Thor was completely open with his emotions, there were certain facets even he kept guarded, under heavy chain and key.

"If you would allow me...?" Thor's hand squeezed his shoulder, his skin heating up within moments of the touch. He managed a small nod, and something like "uh huh" knowing that whatever he would tell him would heal him tonight, heal the parts that needed mending deep within him. Words could do that he knew, be razors or butterfly stitches. He just hoped that he'd be able to do the same for him someday, if he was given the chance.

"Listen to me if you will: you are the furthest thing from a burden. You encumber not me, nor the ones around you. Your talents are without end, your fortitude is inspiring, and you are accepted in my eyes. You will never be anything less." The voice was clear and unwavering, the epitome of what comfort could emulate and become, a father inspiring confidence in a son, a mother reassuring her daughter.

"You, Steven, are far more noble than I. Those with your attributes on Asgard would have a special place in Vallhalla, if you had passed in battle. There would be rooms dedicated to your glory, your face chiseled in gold and diamond, offerings left in your name and title with the hopes of inspiring such feats of the soul that you have, as a natural boon." This was spoken in a gentle tone, a notch down from the first part of the speech. These words knit into his skin, embedding themselves in his neurons, firing synapses and energy where there had once been lifeless cells, bobbing anchors seeking forward movement.

In fact, it was as if Thor was praising him on his outward appearance, on how his character could be modeled into what his people found to be worthy in a person.

"Steve, believe me when I say that you are to be admired for your abilities, praised for the obstacles you overcome." The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently, blue eyes filled with nothing but truth, veracity electrifying the sapphire hues into a stream of color, a heated gaze settling upon his own. This was either to solidify his claims, or it was...it was...

The god's head tilted, mirroring Steve's gesture of both confusion and embarrassment. "If one takes the time to see you, to see you with what eyes could so easily miss, they would find themselves besotted."

Besotted...drunk, intoxicated, something like that... he had gone to art school not wanted to be a teacher...

Out of old habit, his teeth clenched the inside of his mouth, his lower lip twitching with the effort, a gesture that didn't go without recognition. Thor's gaze shifted its sights, eyelids slanting, as if he found the shape of his lips fascinating, a wonder to behold for the rest of his lengthy life. Thor found quite a lot of things interesting about this time, every device in the kitchen, every restaurant, every difference in language. But the conduct of his focus was now completely directed on, to Steve's complete disbelief, on his mouth.

He figured it wise to say something, to see if words could dissuade what he figured to be delirium from lack of sleep. Why else would Thor be looking at him like he wanted to...well, he looked as if...

"I...err...you...thank you. Yes, thank you, how rude of me. You've been painting me up as this great guy, and if you really feel that way, then I can honestly say I'm thankful." All-seeing eyes lifted their attention from his lips, catching his gaze instead.

It was dark, but the both of them could see without any form of difficulty. Meaning, Thor would certainly be able to tell that the dusting of heat across his neck and face was due to more than him fumbling over his words, and that yes, there was a determined element in sapphire hues, brought on by a source that was not as unknown with the progression of their conversation as naivete would claim.

"You are the furthest thing from rude, Steven. If anything, it is I who disgrace you with my silence."

Silence. Silence about what exactly? He had something to tell him, something he was keeping from him? In the grand scheme of things, that wasn't the worst that could happen, for they were still strangers...

Fingers slid under his chin, tilting his head up, trapping him in place for a full moment before the hold lessened. He was given the option of escape, of pulling away, of yelling at the top of his lungs that he wanted Thor out of his bed and never to come in and tell him about silence and pretty words and compliments ever again.

But Steve would never do that.

"If it is permissable...if I would be inflicting no harm upon what we are now...have I your acquiescence?" A fancy term for permission, something to that effect...

Blue eyes narrowed, lips pursing in inquiry, expecting an answer. For the moment, Thor, Thor the Norse God, he who commanded storms and Mjolnir was at the mercy of his words.

Steve managed a nod, drunk on the thought of what would happen next. "Are you sure? I thought I was doing that whole unrequited thing pretty well on my own."

Steve never knew it was possible to taste laughter, but that's what happened not an instant after. Words escaped him, fear fleeing to the shadowed rooms and corridors where it belonged, shrinking against the golden-fire of the mouth on his, the lips that tasted his own as if they were sacred, a holy union without sound, frantically seeking for a way to make it last for as long as possible. His lips trembled once, though he was doing a good job of holding them in place, giving way to the effect he didn't want: Thor pulling away.

The room spun, a haze settling over his eyes, a sort of lover's tizzy that he didn't know he was capable of feeling anymore. He figured his mouth was set in a goofy twist of his lips, the sort of smile that felt like all the good things in the world had wrapped up in one neat ribbon, delivered and sealed with such a kiss.

"Was that inappropriate in any way? If I have wronged you, please say so, Steven." God, the way Thor said his name, every syllable and octave of his name, peppered in full over a thick accent was enough to reduce him to little more than this dazed being he had become. Was it possible to transition through different modes of human emotion, the fear, the terror of his dream, the heartache and self-loathing he had battled for months now, changed in full by this giddiness, a feeling he wished would elongate and stay, stay in his mind for the less unsightly moments?

If not, then maybe he was crazy.

And with the way the god was staring at him, a gaze that was guileless, so open and raw, he didn't think being crazy was so bad. Thor liked him enough to kiss him, now didn't he?

"God no, you didn't do anything wrong. If anything, I've felt this way for maybe a week." A smile split Thor's features, a broad grin so full of unadulterated joy that Steve wondered how he could ever manage to be unhappy in this man's company. "I was never going to speak up and say something, for I thought I was confusing the way you were helping me with something else." Thor's head tilted, eyes narrowing in thought, realization blooming across his features with the speed of sunlight against a steady body of water.

"That something else being the way I have been protecting you from your nightly terrors?" A small smile became a full grin, a happiness that refused to be bound by the limitation of lips. "Steven, I considered it wrong to believe that I could act on how I felt, for I did not want to dissuade or discomfort you." The god laughed, a laugh that boomed for Steve's ears alone, a tenor slithering into his rib-cage, settling against the muscle of his heart. He had done that, he had created that beautiful sound, the smile that he had denied himself of for far too long. "It appears we both have erred in our intentions."

Intentions. Something would come of this, something more than this. There was more than this, a piece, no, a masterpiece of color and life to be held...

"I...yeah, I was pretty stupid." A breath escaped his lips, the breath becoming a throaty moan when his back was touched once more, muscles and pores reacting to Thor's touch alone.

He was not crazy, foolish or beyond the reach of adaptation. He was not some love-lorn fool, nor doomed to a fate of unfulfilled longing for a touch he would be granted with only in his dreams, chaotic though they might have been.

"You are a wise man, Steven."

He never really liked being called Steven until right now, he managed to murmur, his mind clouded with fatigue. For a singular moment, he almost didn't want to close his eyes, close his eyes and leave a reality that was far better than snatches of rest, than the bliss of a heated embrace.

"This is real, right?"

A reassurance that yes, the god was very real instigated a firmer hold on his back, fingers pressing against the planes of his shoulders, the hollow dip of his lower back threading with warmth.

They'd talk about this tomorrow, whatever this was. For now, he had some sleep to catch up on.

~-~-~

_"...I've taken too much, given up._

_I am twisted, burning, breaking up._

_I need to find a way of letting it go..."_

_End of Part II_


	3. Awaken My Human Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part III of IV of this Thunder Shield story. I lied again when I claimed this would be a two-shot. I just don't like anything being squished, or too much of the story being told at once.
> 
> I also apologize for keeping you wonderful people waiting. The next chapter is half-written, I promise.
> 
> Loki: And we all know how well this one is with keeping her word...
> 
> Oh hush, you.
> 
> I have many other prompts for this wonderful, wonderful pairing coming out at some point, but a lot of other tales - and muses - demand my attention. I thank each and every one of you for taking the time to read my words, for reviewing, alerting and favoriting, it continues to touch my heart so deeply.
> 
> The courtship, confessions, and a feel-good chapter 80% of the time, with aspects of this pairing that I love to bits and pieces.
> 
> Ownership belongs with Phil Coulson: very much alive and thriving on a beach in Honolulu somewhere, sipping a pina colada with an umbrella, enjoying his break and reading Captain America comics.

_Part III: Awaken My Human Truths_

There was something mercifully beautiful about waking up in the 21st century. Not just rousing in the arms of a thunder god from another place in the world, having had no nightmares to speak of and confess to said thunder god, but managing to understand the brilliancy of a changed Earth.

History moved forward, laws were changed, and sexuality was deemed fluid, altering and morphing into something born of emotion alone. It had nothing whatsoever to do with gender, simply what someone felt, the exchanged glances that sent shivers through their bones, fire scuttling through veins and ensconcing a permanent adrenaline rush in bodies. Men could live with other men, women other women, and in this day and age, there was not a thing wrong with that.

It wasn't something Steve had ever had the chance to consider, much less the time. He had a fair amount of attraction for Peggy and would have certainly gone dancing with her, learning all about what in the world fondue pertained to, and maybe settled down in a world carved from perfection and happy endings. His life was still going and the ending wouldn't come for a long while; the happiness was here and now.

Regardless of what he was, whether he was interested in men alone, or maybe women and men both, he knew that he was prepared to try, to inch forward and rebuild a desolate part in his heart that hadn't been visited in the longest while. It wasn't that he was lonely for romantic companionship: he just had never had the chance to create something. All the women he attempted to court had been simply that: attempts, pitiful in nature, for in his early youth, he had a stutter and could barely look a woman in the eye. He was polite, courteous, but all they saw was a young man shorter than them, the town runt so eager to prove that he could fight with the big boys that he was willing to risk jail-time and unending humiliation to fight for his country.

It was a white page, without ink and lines, designs or fingerprints. It was a land that was untamed, without houses and cities, free from skylights and telephone wires.

After seventy years of nothing, of a limbo state beneath the North Atlantic ocean, he was prepared not only to thaw, but to trust someone enough to help him construct a metaphoric novel, or a city based on the analogy that his heart had been empty, had been forced to remain empty when it came to notions of intimacy.

He was ready to try trusting someone with this sacred concept, no matter what past beliefs had to say in the matter. This wasn't the 1940's any longer and he would be damned if he let deterrence keep him from happiness.

It began with training together, with the friendly concept of teaching one another about how they learned to be bred for battle. It was, in the truest sense of the word, a cannonball effect, a plunge deep into the heart of what they were: warriors, defending their worlds, warriors who wanted to learn more about the other in the simplest way they knew how.

The only way to change surface level formality into something romantically casual was, in blatant and simple terms, to work out with a god. Together, they ran laps until sweat poured from their skin, their clothing clinging to them from their efforts, faces flush from the sunlight and the conversation they managed to keep as they sprinted around the track. Every so often, they would make friendly jabs borne of jest, claiming that neither could keep up with the other, races ensuing that left them short of breath but refusing to pause.

"Catch me if you can!" That was never something he could say freely during his youth, for his asthma made it nearly impossible to keep a steady sprint, much less outrun the neighborhood bullies that took a liking to grinding his face in the concrete. But now, with a laughing and steadily catching up thunder god, he could bare all, reveal all.

Thor caught up and never released him, all but tackling him into the grass, their bodies meshing with horseplay and a heated undercurrent of their proximity. Their breaths were little more than heated panting, the rise and fall of their chests and snuck glances the parallel of foreplay. In a separate time, they would have been ensnared in sheets, drunk off of the other's body, breaking a sweat carrying on a completely different meaning.

In time, their eyes promised. In time.

They sparred with their hands alone, shields and weapons down, both favoring hand-to-hand combat. Steve figured Thor was just as equally thrilled to have someone to compete with, someone who was on his same level of strength, someone he could learn from.

Every move was precise, deliberate, the rhythm of a synchronized tango of bodies, creating an environment of utmost welcome. There was no hesitation in Thor's eyes when he brought up the thought of them training together, for though his teammates would have joined him in the room, there would have been an inevitable disconnect. Steve had gotten used to the thought of never being able to truly test himself with someone. He could bench-press with Barton and learn Natasha's fancy combat footwork all he desired, but the serum amplified his mortal limits, creating a being of almost god-like strength.

Here, the two of them were evenly matched and above all, purely elated at the thought of not having to hold anything back.

Hands became fists and the training room was their classroom, teaching one another everything they knew from battles they had once fought. Thor recounted to him about a few techniques he had learned when he all but sought out trouble in his youth and in turn Steve explained about the time he had snuck into Austria with no more than a cardboard shield, desperate to save hundreds of men from torture and death.

This earned him a look of pride, sapphire pools becoming mirrors; in Thor's eyes, he was a hero, everything that he had ever wanted to be and more.

It could have been desperate speculation a small part of him whispered, the need to witness the thought of Thor looking at him and seeing something worthy, someone who could fashion bravery like a ridiculous propaganda costume and save lives.

But the proof was right there, all but glittering in eyes that bore more than a hint of inner-joy. Eyes weren't only the windows to the soul, but full-bodied mirrors, showcasing what was impossible to hide, honesty emanating from an immortal gaze.

These eyes proclaimed that Thor was impressed with him, proud to have him at his side. What was there before him, the reality of that tender gaze was enough to silence his mental demons. The truth really could set someone free.

"I think you're good for my health." Thor laughed, clapping him on the back after their separate showers.

"And why ever would that be?" A smile pulled Steve's mouth, the thought of grimacing and inner-frustration impossible around him, especially after what he just realized. That made him yearn for Thor's company even more, which wasn't the worst of fates he could have come up with.

"You make me feel as if I accomplished everything I sought out to do. You made me realize that I could be this team's leader, if I wanted that. You ah...you're..." Thor's brow furrowed in confusion, smiling eyes bidding him to continue.

"You're good for me. You make me happy, which is a big deal considering I spent months in a dark place that I didn't think I'd ever get out of." Steve almost thanked him from returning from Asgard, but he didn't think that the timing was right or appropriate. After all this time, the team still never knew what became of Loki, and they decided it was best to keep that secret with Thor. Something about not wanting to rip out stitches before it was time to share the story, a process of healing that couldn't be rushed.

One modicum of convalescence was linked with another in an integrated pattern, something Steve was finally becoming aware of. It didn't have to be this cycle of dread, endless nightmares plaguing hours of rest. Two people really could help each other, and healing could begin.

He was clapped on the back then, the proximity tugging him from the reassuring reverie, a warm hand massaging a small patch of skin between his shoulder blades, a place that never failed to reduce him to a grinning sappy pile of mush that formed such thoughts like grinning sappy piles of mush.

"As are you, Steven. You are a man worthy of being honored, and if you had been raised on Asgard, would have been hailed as a mighty hero, worshiped without end. A noble man from a humble beginning, the embodiment of what makes this world grand."

All of this was said without the faintest traces of verbal fanfare. Because after all, Thor had been raised to be a king and speaking well came with the job description. But despite proper grooming and vocal etiquette, Thor managed to remain purely genuine. Steve didn't think he would be able to tell a lie if his very life depended on it, for he would more than likely declare, in a voice that could be heard from a few miles away, that he didn't think it was proper to play games with others.

He managed to meet Thor's eyes for a few moments, scuffling his feet against the floor, chastising himself for acting like a fourteen-year-old young man again when the pretty girl walked by in the hallway before dropping his gaze to the boot-scuffed linoleum. Thor's words settled against his ears, knitting themselves into a place that had hurt for so long, it was a pain forgotten, an ache that came and went with memory. As nice as this felt, and as certain as he was that he was getting better, he really had no idea how to react to this.

This was different than Coulson recognizing who he was from the comic books and movies, different than Tony bringing up the films and the hero-worship he had for the character of Captain America when he had been a young boy playing around with circuit boards. Fame and true understanding were never destined to touch.

But this was a compliment from someone who had helped him in more ways than he could articulate. He wasn't even sure if he had properly thanked the god for everything he had done for him, for invading his room that night and easing him out of the crab-shell existence that he had unintentionally fallen into. He figured that he was still getting used to the open-air, to the sunshine without the shadowy place that he had been both powerless and reluctant to call home. Figuring out how to take these words was a different facet of his modern-day rehabilitation entirely, due to the source.

When one's personal savior praised you and mollified the flaws in your own design, seeing no defect or handicap but something worthy of gentle recognition, Steve figured it was easy to be rendered more than a little speechless.

Had he really thought so low of himself for the longest time that he had forgotten how to take a compliment? He had said enough yes ma'am's to fill a lifetime and a half, politeness his mantra and perpetual curse. It wasn't that he suffered with confidence issues, the thought that he couldn't look physically at the one who complimented him on qualities he knew about but didn't give much credence to. It was that he didn't wish to think too highly of himself for abilities that had been given to him based on science, the progress filling his veins instead of attributes that fully came from his heart.

"I...mm...guess. I guess I just worry that everything special about me comes from what I was created to be. Supposedly, the serum takes what's inside and makes it that much so. The bullies become villains, and the little guys with decent hearts become the heroes."

He managed to raise his eyes from the floor as he spoke, knowing that there was nothing to be afraid of here. There was safety in this lion-hearted creature's presence, the thought of harm whole worlds away. It was safe to look at him, to search his eyes for any hint of inquiry to his words, for any emotion in general.

There was something there, pulsating in the pupil, a dilation that begged a question in silence first, words fulfilling the truth of what Steve could see in the god's eyes. Thor asked him if he was allowed to touch him, to push the touching of that spot between his shoulder blades to something more, to something more intimate. Steve agreed, nearly saying that he didn't need to ask permission every time he wanted to touch him, but that time had long passed after Thor gripped his chin.

"You believe my words, do you not?" The expression in Thor's eyes was akin to a mixture of disbelief and confusion, the purpose behind the bewilderment being that Thor couldn't see how blind Steve was to his own strengths, to the wondrous qualities he saw within him. Before he could answer, Thor interrupted him, an interruption that Steve was thankful for; the god always did have a way of quieting the thoughts that would hurt him. "What was bestowed upon you, this elixir of the pinnacle of vigor took what was within you and made it that much more so." Gently, Thor prodded his chest, his left pectoral with enough force to send someone else careening backward. This only made Steve smile, a smile borne of a shyness he wasn't aware he was able to feel until right then. "You are great, grand and everything that could ever be a man. If I have to keep you here until you believe so, then allow me to grow roots and vines until you hearken to the truth of what I see in you."

Steve figured a kiss was long overdue, for inner-reticence had all but consumed him today along with the remains of confusion and the night-terrors that ensnared his waking thoughts. These words however, words that became a few muttered syllables against his mouth, nudged by ever-smiling lips became his solace, a peace that clotted the cracks in his mental armor. Whoever said words couldn't heal and were powerless had never had them recited against their mouth before, the heat and intimacy the words could inspire enough to bring him to his knees. Thor's lips brushed against his bottom lip, compliance coming when Steve returned the kiss, his lips forming against the god's mouth without a sound, understanding and connection a silent, seamless act.

It was against that mouth that he confessed everything in that moment, his guilt over sins that were seventy years too late to atone for, to the tattered mode of conscience that had once robbed him of sleep, and about how he still missed his mother whenever he thought about Christmas and her easy-going smile. Thor did nothing but listen, his lips pressing against his mouth, reassuring every nuance of doubt with the words that Steve's heart was desperate to hear, germinating a hope within him that would blossom, rolling hills growing in land that had once been infertile, too damaged to see anything but obsidian earth that matched the color of the skies.

"See?" Steve managed to murmur during a stolen breath. "You're good for my health, good for me. Look how you've managed to make this so much better."

Thor's response was a deep-throated but almost silent chuckle, his forehead pressing against Steve's for intentions of heat, for neither wanted to be separated just yet. "Betterment often times can be created by more than the source of inner-enlightenment, Steven."

Thor brushed a hand against his face, sapphire mirrors revealing that he thought Steve precious, that this was far more than obligations to culpability and the nurturing part to the god's personality. He wouldn't have been stroking his face with nearly as much tenderness if any of that had been true.

"We're good for each other then."

_ststststst_

The following morning while seeking dress attire for the day, Thor asked him a question that worked in accordance of his usual forthright nature: if this intimacy and dual healing was indeed leading up to a proper courtship. Steve agreed within a few moments, no matter if he had been buttoning up his khakis, that yes, this could be about a relationship, about fondue and all of the other things that they would do but hadn't done yet. The promise was there, unspoken between the two of them; now it was time to speak and make it official, hiding nothing and revealing all.

The two of them had managed to keep their gradual build-up of requited emotion somewhat hidden from their teammates, for it was a private affair to Steve, something that he wasn't ready to share. It wasn't so much as what they would do or say, the actions that would inevitably turn to judgment and narrowed glances of confusion and what this would do to the team, but it was about, to Steve's shame, sharing. He hadn't been ready to share the thought of being so vulnerable in front of one person, no matter how warm and inviting he made him feel, to the rest of the Assemble. It might have had something to do with shattering airs at last, at proclaiming that he was not perfect, that he was still very much a human being, with doubts, who had succumbed to nightmares resulting in needing the aid of the one person who was within earshot of his screams. This would expose weakness, his humanity, though the team knew nothing about that.

It might have also been that he had never brought a girl home before, much less professed that he was over the moon for a Norse God that could literally take him up over the moon if he asked him nicely. It was all a matter of playing it by ear, of going with whatever happened, with the flow of things as they came and went.

The time was now. There was no need to wait for anything, except for the propriety of timing.

It was after a briefing of a minor mission, one that only involved Tony and Bruce, but obligated the rest of the Assemble to listen in, just in case the plans went awry in any way. Fury opened the floor to the team, asking them that if they had anything to add, it had to be now, for he was leaving for an assignment for two weeks and wouldn't be able to be reached unless it was for an emergency.

It was Thor who stood up, and with his usual candor and present-smile, asked if the team would be offended in any way if he began an official courtship of Steven Rogers.

There was silence, his escalating heart-rate and elevated rise of temperature, and then bedlam.

"I knew it. I called it. Pay up, hawk thighs." To which Clint begrudgingly forked over three twenty dollar bills to Tony's proffered palm, giving him an elated smile after his wallet had all been cleaned out.

Gambling about affection; he had never put it past Tony, nor Clint, so he could say with complete honesty that he was fine with it. It did mean that he wasn't nearly as secretive as he had suspected with the development with Thor, but there was no need to dwell on it.

The cat was out of the bag and with one look to Thor's unabashed smile, he didn't have to be the one to bare the claws alone, no matter if his significant other who was still becoming very significant to him felt no embarrassment for his admission.

Natasha gave him a close, thirty-second scrutiny before an indifferent smile found her lips. "I'm happy for you both." Steve figured that she really was happy for them, but there was that thirty-second uneasiness bordering on disapproval. She was a spy, duplicitous, taught about protocol and analysis, not about notions of sentiment. He didn't blame her for the cautionary glance, for meeting his gaze with a "Be warned that this could end badly" look that spoke of her nature: intent on keeping her business free from her heart.

Bruce gave him an easy smile, leaning back in his chair as Tony pocketed the bills. "Good for you; now Tony will stop obsessing about who's getting with who behind closed doors."

"Hey, my money was right on the ball with that one, you gotta admit. Blonds with blonds, it's the way of the world." Tony lifted an imaginary glass, giving him and Thor a cheeky grin. "I'll throw you two the biggest Hollywood wedding if that's what you want, complete with a chocolate fountain, or a cheese fountain, and a bachelor party; honeymooning in Monte Carlo might be nice, or that place in Italy with the gelato stands. Trust me, that stuff will make you forget all about pop-tarts, Norsey."

Fury walked over to Tony right then, placing a large hand, complete with larger fingers over Tony's mouth, silencing his speculations about marital status and what to serve for dessert. "Alright, alright, enough of this tripe. Captain, Odinson, I'm happy for you. I admit, this will be...different for the team, but so long as this doesn't interfere with the mission of the Assemble, feel free to do whatever it is that you two do. You don't need my permission, you're both grown boys." Steve didn't want to add that sometimes Tony called Fury "Pappie" when he was especially inebriated, for that would have resulted in a more profound squeeze of Tony's face.

"I've seen stranger things in my day than two people who genuinely care about each other asking for permission of the team so that they can do what they feel like. And that includes a Norse, hammer-wielding god asking a super-soldier from the 40's out to dinner." Fury released his hold on Tony's face, then with all the dexterity of a pick-pocket, snatched the bills from Tony's lap. "Here. Consider this compensation for all your hard work."

The bills were thrown to Thor, who caught them easily and by reflex alone, while Tony claimed that he earned the money, and the bet, while Clint just sat there, shaking his head at the infuriated scientist who forced him into this state of deference. Bruce then claimed that Tony had plenty of money, Natasha began playing with a small gadget in her hand, and that little vein in the middle of Fury's temple began to throb.

This was about him. This was about him, and other people were contributing to the subject, everyone aside from him. He had to speak up now, before Tony's mouth was released and no one else could get a word in edgewise, especially him. He wasn't the self-conscious young man who could barely look women in the eye if he was given the chance. He would be a leader, even if this had nothing whatsoever to do with leading the Assemble. It had everything to do with him, however, him and Thor.

The chair that slid from the movement of easing himself into a standing position had no power on a normal day, but on a day when professions of romance - no matter how vague - were in order for this sort of team, it might as well have had the power to inspire awestruck, silent behavior.

"First of all, Tony, really? You make enough money to feed ten families if you so much as blow your nose." He said this with a small smile, his remark the furthest thing from caustic. No matter if he had been given a vicious diatribe from the team for what was put into motion with him and Thor, he still would have treated them with ease. Teams had to be full of rapport, no matter what minor events took place behind the scenes, under heavy wraps. "Also...thanks for accepting what's taking place, and for not shunning me. I'm really not used to acceptance when it comes to the attraction of the same gender." This earned him a genial smile from Thor, and an expected smirk from Tony, for this all but revealed that he was attracted to the Norse God adjacent from him. "Really, thank you all. Thank you for not getting uncomfortable, or calling me names or anything. I wanted to let the team know, for I don't enjoy dishonesty or keeping secrets."

This earned him a smile from every single member of the team, Fury included, whose laugh was symbiotic with the shake of his head. "Yeah yeah, get out of here with the money before Tony tries anything. Dismissed."

On the way out the door, Clint gave him a sly grin that all but stated that it was about time, leading Steve to wondering just where he had been for the last few months. Scaling the rafters perhaps? Natasha patted his arm a few times, her eyes unreadable but her smile still in place, revealing a happiness that Steve understood to be as genuine as she could manage when it came to notions of love and affection.

Tony and Bruce bickered about staying out of one another's private affairs (Bruce) and having the compulsive need to understand what was going on, especially when he was funding a lot of the research that was going on in the mansion (Tony). Both clapped him on the back, offered smiles, and changed the topic to something about chemical defects in the brain that led to disorders where people couldn't just mind their own damn business.

Fury shook his head, eyed both him and Thor, then said that if they really wanted to go out to dinner, the movies, bowling or fishing or whatever they wanted, to keep it as low-key as they could, so not to attract the attention of the public eye and the paparazzi. If they could do that, then the world could be their romantic, exploratory playground.

The door closed, leaving him and Thor alone in the debriefing room, as far from the eyes of his teammates as the security cameras left them, leaving them to sort out what had been mercifully sparse consequences.

Thor placed the bills on the table to his right, his posture revealing a sheepish element that contradicted his usual broad-framed, air of confidence. Chagrin lined the wrinkles around his eyes, his mouth parting, only to close once more.

What was...was it...yes, yes it was. What a good guy Thor was.

"Steven, I had no intentions of shaming you in such a manner. I fully believed that the timing was appropriate, but I erred in not speaking with you before my words became corporeal."

Steve shook his head, silencing his words with a reassuring smile that appeared to work a physical miracle on Thor's disposition. "No, really, thank you for doing that. It was a little unexpected, sure, but that's better than what I would have done. I would have danced around the subject until the team would have grown irritated with me." He was still reeling from the fact that, yes, _that actually happened_ , that the team knew about what was taking place between him and Thor, and that there was no sense in worrying about notions of scathing judgment, but that didn't mean that a celebration wasn't in order.

The gap was closed between them in four strides, two from each angle, proximity eliciting a tremor of heat across his skin. He had no doubts that Thor understood what his escalating heart-rate meant, that it was far more than the unveiling of whatever this was to the team, than nerves and the promise that approval was theirs for the picking. This feeling, the intensity in his blood, the way he became aware of Thor's labored breathing pattern was proof enough of the fruition that had come from the night a few months past, when Thor had taken it upon himself to knock on his door and ask him how he fared.

"There's nothing to forgive. You didn't do anything wrong." The smile that split Thor's face was enough to put other examples of the epitome of happiness to absolute ruination, innocence, solace and promises kept revealed in the stretch of pink lips, marked with the stubble of his beard.

"I am pleased that I did nothing to upset you, Steven." There his hand went again, massaging, caressing, all-but worshiping that spot in-between his shoulder blades that reduced him to nothing but a being elevated to the highest planes of pleasure, what a tender touch could draw out of him.

"Mmmnh...not at all. I'm still...as you know, not used to this. To anyone being even remotely interested in me."

"Patience, for you, will ever be my strong point." Thor lifted his hand from Steve's back, and when Steve murmured an impulsive protest, the hand relocated to his right cheek. "The fact that there was not a one who was romantically interested in someone as pure of heart as you leaves me baffled, but incomparably pleased. Pleased, for the competition is sparse, if not non-existent." Steve wanted to add that there had been someone, sort-of, but now was not the time. He would mention Peggy when the time was correct, when Thor was prepared to speak of past loves and trysts and escapades and all of the things that gods were known to do.

But the words seeped into his skin, filling his veins with unending elation, a sort of ecstatic hope buoying him, pushing him forward, his mouth meeting Thor's in a mess of words, of silence, of moans that embellished the thought that this was about so much more than what protection would provide, than any concept of repaying Thor for everything he had done for him.

He managed to thank him, in a moment when Thor's mouth drifted to his neck, nipping the skin and sucking the shape of his jaw. Thor released his neck with a final kiss, raising his head only to rest it against the slighty shorter man's forehead in a show of blatant, wanted affection.

"Is love not protection?" Love. The word was there and had been there, dangling over him like an ever-present prize from a wavering thread, the thought faraway and close, existing for the sake of others, for the world. He had wanted the world to love itself, to cease the constant wars and embrace the thought of peace, in a time when old grudges would stay buried, when ideals would be pure and true.

He had wanted love for himself, for there to be a sole being out there that would see more than a campaign designed to ignite fear in hostile land, more than the colors of the American flag for armor, more than a warrior and sculptured combatant of sacrifice and what he perceived as truth. He had never found it from where he had been.

But now, he had been given something hypothetical, a thought that inspired a euphoria that gave him a goofy grin, a red-tinted face, and hands that trembled of their own accord.

"Yeah, you're right." And to thank Thor for clearing that up for him, he insinuated the kiss afterwards, the kiss that led to an exchange of laughter, exploratory touches, and Tony's voice over the intercom that was connected to the AI in the house that if they wanted to go out to dinner, fondue, or go to a movie and make-out in the back, they could take his credit cards.

To which a loud crash resonated through the speaker system, a fizzle of a lost connection, and the prospect of uninterrupted peace became a more than inviting future.

_ststststst_

No matter how many references he didn't understand, a courtship was one concept that he could grasp with ease. It was when two people who wanted to get to know more about the other in a romantic sense did things for each other, nice things, things that would inspire a more profound rapport through the relationship. He understood that men brought women flowers, complimented them on their hair, their dresses, and would always hold open doors for them when they went out on the town to dance, or to see the local film.

This was the same concept, but the elements were skewered into something beyond recognition, which both terrified him and thrilled him to no end. He had no idea what to get Thor, for flowers were out of the question. Perhaps if it was some sort of symbolic root from Asgard that meant that he wanted to get to know more about him, found in the belly of some dragon he had to slay, or a giant tree that would bestow prosperity and a good harvest to the world entire, that would be a worthy gift.

Compliments would be well warranted, for no matter how balanced out the god could be when it came to matters of humility, he was terrifically vain. If Steve took the time to tell him how sharp he looked in his armor, with the polished pauldrons, the chest armor revealing his built pectorals and biceps, and scarlet cape that completed the ensemble, he would more than likely be standing in the hallway, or in the room, or on a balcony all day. Thor was magnificent and would ever be magnificent, a gilded form of beauty that belonged to the heavens, a face forged from the whittling and training of royalty.

All he really had to say was, "You look good today" and that would grant him the biggest smile he had ever seen, as well as a subtle smirk that marked the precursor of welcome silence, for there was no time to talk when they were exploring one another's mouths.

No, this had to be...special. Very special, and authentic, something for Thor alone, something that would show him just how much the god meant to him. This god didn't demand goats or his first born child or anything of the sort, - thankfully, for being romantically interested in Thor didn't involve livestock or tithes for a boon - but Steve did want for this to be unique nevertheless, befitting for someone of his being.

That thought, or rather the word of "being" made his fingers twitch, wishing for charcoals and his sketchbook, the paper that had always been his solace when the daily world and the short-lived peace was too true a reality. It inspired him to do something that he hadn't attempted since his revival from the throes of his frigid prison: create an impression of something that awakened his soul.

But to do this, he would have to act out in complete secrecy, without Thor's knowledge.

"I'm doing something for you, but it's a surprise. If you see my door closed, knock first and if I say it's alright, you can come in. I don't want you to see it yet until it's ready." This granted him a twenty-second stare, a furrowed brow that reminded Steve of a child trying to make sense of an adult-related issue, and at the last, another face-splitting smile that put the sun to shame.

"I cannot disguise my curiosity, but I know that the fruits of your labor will be revealed to me in time. Especially since you're doing this of your own will, working for my eyes alone."

He had managed to mumble something about feeling like a pretty lucky guy, before the words were stolen, tasted, and replaced on his lips, inspiration dawning afresh behind his slowly-closing eyes.

It had taken a full month and a paper-filled trash-bin until he revealed what he was working on. He wasn't sure how he could present it to Thor without simply opening up his sketchbook and showing him the other drawings, still-life and nature-oriented until the concept of a slip-cover, a protective filming preserving the charcoal portrait from oxygen and fingerprints came to mind. Nothing would ruin this gift, especially grimy hands and smearing.

Steve had no idea if gods of thunder could control time, but if it was in any relation to the rapping on his door, marking Thor's question if he could enter his room, then they most certainly controlled some fine-element of excellent timing.

"Come in. And I have something for you." He flipped the portrait face-down, his hand pressed against the back of the protective film, both hiding and shielding it until the last moment before his creation would no longer be his. This was giving fully of himself, stripping away the veil of boundaries and intimacy, the very-present thought of laying with the god in the near future. Distance would be gone, weaknesses and his skill all but thrown to the wolves, all and every insecurity in this anxious moment crashing to the surface, breaking into a world of uncertainties.

It really wasn't just about giving someone a present; it was about giving the be-all end-all of someone who had a true hand in saving his life something his hands made, something that would reveal how he saw Thor.

That was what happened when you chose to draw someone, or dedicate any piece of art in their name and honor: the moment of panic before, laced with the singular doubt that they had thought wrong, had forgotten the most important of details beforehand.

He had never been this self-aware of his drawings before now. He sometimes would shut his artistic pad closed before anyone could see his latest drawing, but that only happened on rare occasions when he really didn't think what he created was ready for human eyes.

This would be for the eyes of someone far beyond the concept of human.

Thor entered his room, his enthusiasm unmatched, his gait and presence revealing that it was too late to turn back. And when he saw him smile at him, that soft, intimate grin, he wondered just what the hell he was so afraid of, and how he could consider going backwards now.

"Your creation is ready for my sights, Steven?" As ready as it ever would be, as ready as it could ever possibly be, yes.

"Yes, it's ready. I...well...I hope you like it." He licked his lips once, scolding himself for sounding like some stammering school-boy asking the pretty girl out to the homecoming dance after the football game. He cleared his throat once, losing the inhibition borne of fear. "This is for you, my gift to you."

He lifted the portrait, the piece that he all but obsessed over for weeks exposed to him alone, granting Thor with the back of an artistic vellum only. He flipped it over, handing it to Thor, watching the god's every gesture with raw, almost pleading eyes. Eyes that screamed, "Please like it, please let this be alright."

Steve really wasn't too sure of what he was expecting, but whatever it might have been in his mind, the subconscious truth of how he assumed Thor would react, this was the furthest thing from that. For a moment, he wondered if all of the sound had been turned off in the mansion, or if he had been been struck fully and openly deaf, for Thor was the quietest he had ever been around him. He wasn't even sure if the god was even breathing, and a quick look to his chest revealed that no, Thor wasn't breathing. His heart was beating, healthy and strong, and he was very much alive but he wasn't moving, or giving the faintest notion that he would be taking a breath any time soon.

This reverie lasted for a full two minutes, two minutes in which he counted the seconds, wondering just how long this stupor would last - out of the sake of curiosity and a little bit of fear, for what if his drawing killed him? - until it ended with the rising of Thor's hand. His index finger of his left hand stroked the edge of the portrait, only the edges, as if he was in a state of reverence that literally left him feeling as if he was worthy to only marvel at the charcoal and not fully touch it yet.

Steve wanted to tell him that the drawing wouldn't explode into flames or sprout little teeth suddenly, but Steve didn't have the heart to interrupt him. Whatever Thor was meditating on, or looking at for the sake of his gift, he was really looking at it, giving it his full attention. It was really strange to watch, for Thor wasn't the time to remain quiet for very long. He was contemplative until he voiced his thoughts aloud, whether it was an inquiry about what the silver box was on the top of the television set, or how to properly use toothpaste to its full health benefit; he was never simply silent like this, no matter what the subject was.

Steve had no idea how to accept that his gift, that something that he made inspired such a mode of rapture to a god. Usually it was the mortals who were enchanted by the gods, not the other way around.

After another full sixty seconds, sixty Mississippis, Thor ceased touching the edge of the portrait, focusing instead on tracing the lines of the profile, his brow furrowed, eyebrows knitted together as if sharing the secret of what had possessed Steve to create this, this creation that had engulfed him in such complete thrall. Steve knew that it was good work, a craftsmanship that would have made his past teachers at the art school he had attended three lifetimes ago proud, a proclamation that he really did enjoy his craft, when he wasn't off trying to defeat Hydra or jealous Norse Gods who wanted to destroy the world.

He had given an honest attempt at portraying Thor as he saw him, the image that was branded behind his eyelids, imprinted on the contours of his lips, an image that stirred his blood, awakening the thought that he really could find happiness with someone, with someone who cared enough to listen to him, the one who not only tugged him from the shadows with his bare hands, but who threw him over his shoulder, away from the flames of a darkness that could have swallowed him whole.

The perception was an image that allowed him to recognize Thor, qualities that befitted him alone: a warm, welcome smile, and an outstretched hand, reaching and offering himself to help the Midgardians that were under his personal mark of immortal protection. The profile of Thor's face was forged under an endless amount of frustration, his thoughts unnerving, filled with the inquiry on why he couldn't get the rounded edge of his nose quite right, or that little part of his beard that was softer than the rest of the hair follicles, as well as the little wrinkles that layered under his eyes, one after the other, revealing a smile that was truer than the rest of those who existed in his world.

It might have been an idealization of the god that he knew, if not an outright objectifying portrait of how he saw the god, but there was no time to worry about that now. If he had been so concerned about creating something that might have offended Thor, then he wouldn't have bothered to make it in the first place, much less reveal it to him in this show of affection, a show that all but screamed of his feelings for the guy.

It was too late to consider self-doubt; the reality was here, with the way Thor's eyes surveyed the page, with the way that the god had begun to breathe again, and with every palpitation of his frantic heart.

Thor, without looking up from the portrait, sank down to the mattress beside him, his smile gentle, eyes focused fully on the gift before him.

"This is how you perceive me? What your mind and heart see when they gaze upon my sights?"

"Yes. I was in art school before I tried to get into the army a couple hundred times; I always enjoyed art." Thor's laughter rang out, enthusiastic and jump-starting to his veins, electric eyes meeting his own at last.

"Steven, I am so honored. I am struck speechless." His mouth opened a few times, his mind attempting to form words, sentences that would show Thor just how much this meant to him, but he closed his lips, sealing away unnecessary syllables, for he would show his gratitude in another way.

Thor's fingers entwined themselves in his trembling hand, shock coursing through him at the contact and the truth that he had been shaking at all. A reassuring thumb stroked the skin of his index finger, a thumb circling his palm. His hand was brought to Thor's lips, his eyes met before a mouth parted to caress his knuckles. "Thank you, Steven. Your talents have no end, for you not only captured facets of myself that I never considered, but would put the sculptors of every Realm to eternal shame."

Instead of being rendered a stammering, blathering fool, he figured it best to let past volitions speak for themselves, in ways other than talking. The kiss was sloppily initiated, teeth meeting Thor's bottom lip, his hands shaking despite the hold that Thor now had on both of them, as if attempting to hold him together, his unraveling imminent.

He wasn't aware that he had been sobbing until he recognized his own voice, a wavering, distant hum of barely audible "thank you's" and how much this meant to him, what it would always mean. Steve had always believed in saviors, in one true God that stood, watching all and sending guardian angels to fight and seize all who stood against His justice. He had always believed that being saved was possible, that salvation could be found for those who strove towards the possibility of becoming a better person; he just never knew that there would be someone who could help him along the way, someone who was just as scared and just as clueless in this century as he was.

This was proof, the hands on his own, the gentle crooning against his ears, the way his head was suddenly underneath Thor's neck, that he was something precious, someone who would never have to fight alone once again. For a moment, he was ashamed that he actually gave in to tears, that he allowed for himself to drown in this amount of self-pity, a weakness that he could never afford, for it would mean that he was not the embodiment of what the world expected of him.

This was evidence enough that he did not need to be anything but human, no matter the veneer of strength that amplified and obliterated mortal restrictions and limitations. It was hard to be human when everyone else saw something else, when the world witnessed shows of power that should be available to no man. It was enough to reduce a mind to the wicked ways of nightmare, the darkness that could throw everything in chaos, a twisting mass of never-ending bedlam of regret and failure, mistakes that never should have happened. For, if he was something other than human, shouldn't he be able to resist such terrible things from occurring?

There was nothing more he could do for what had transpired, every transgression, every fault of his own internal design that was revealed to the world was there, had happened, and was, along with everyone and thing, lost in pure history.

Why it had taken him this long to understand this was beyond his mental reasonings. The catalyst had been giving fully of himself, reducing him to nothing more than a teary-eyed child, clinging to a god for strength, to a god that needed just as much comfort as he did. He mumbled something like an apology, resulting in a complete reversal of gravity.

He was against the mattress, his wrists gently bound by a grip that was unrelenting, release not an option.

"Steven, you need not apologize." Thor's lips trailed against his cheeks, erasing the tears with his mouth, another language spilling from the god's lips, words that were meant to inspire comfort, consolation, relief from the truth that had mired his thoughts during these months. There were no longer any nightmares; there were however, these moments of unparalleled weakness, stripping him down until he was no longer anything but a man outside of the realms of time, alien in every manner to the team.

But the warmth above him, the stirring of heat that spread across his limbs like scuttling, healing fire was the succor that was precisely what he needed to remind him of his humanity, despite not having the lifespan of a human. The scattered kisses across his face, the subtle pressure of hands against his own eschewed the horrors of what had happened, for it reminded him that it _had_ happened, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Captain America was powerless.

But in this moment, he couldn't find it in himself to care, to feel anything but what Thor gave him, what Thor inspired within him.

"Shhh. Hush, my love, hush." Love, oh love. That sent his thoughts into a euphoric tale-spin, his spirit tumbling inside and out of itself, churning as if by the winds of a malevolent hurricane, scaring him and comforting him all at once. Love, Thor loved him.

What if one of them died, if one of them was injured and never woke up again? What if he lost Thor in battle, and it had been his fault? What if...what if...endlessly, what if.

This was what happened when you exposed your heart to someone, especially when you knew that they had seen you at your lowest point and weakest moment of their life and accepted you fully: a breakdown every now and then, no matter if the breakdown hadn't been prompted by anything more than the revealing of a heartfelt gift.

Relapse was necessary to recovery, now wasn't it?

He allowed himself to be silenced, for his eyes to slip shut, tears trickling through closed eyelids, tears that were brushed away by the side of a calloused thumb. His breathing evened, for every so often Thor kissed his lips, his tongue slipping past the seam of his mouth, puffing air into his lungs and he came to after a long while, his peace of mind without end.

It was about time he opened his eyes, and spoke without tears clogging his throat. His eyes opened, and he had to rub them a few times to clear his vision, his eyes dry and swollen from his open display of emotion.

"I panicked. I'm not sure why, but I just panicked. I knew that this was real, that the thought of being with you would happen, but I lost it." He was almost going to add that Captain America usually didn't lose it and turn into a sniveling, sobbing child, but that was a step backwards. He was human, no matter what DNA and tissue samples claimed under microscopes, just like how Thor was in full grasp of humanity, despite his immortality; his mind had to follow that train of thought, or he would dismantle and be consumed by that false truth once again.

Thor raised himself from his position above him, where he had all been hovering, a current of heat and welcome intimacy, granting him breathing room. Steve sat up, cracking his back several times, brushing aside any thought of chagrin and shame for what happened. There came a time when he had to stop apologizing about the little things.

"Giving you the portrait made it all very real. I've never been with anyone, and with everything that I came from...with everything that I was made to be, I got scared." There was something else he had to say too, and the moment the thought made itself clear to him in his mind, he wished there was a way to erase it, to continue this conversation without that ensconced honesty rattling around in his brain, the words on his tongue forming before he had the chance to take them back. "I understand if this is too much for you, if you don't want to be with me after what I'm showing you. I'm not really sure what's wrong with me, but if you don't want to be part of it, to help me or heal me, I get it. I understand."

They had never really discussed that, the thought that if one of them ever wanted to leave if this became too much, far too real and raw, that they could. Steve figured it was because their union was something based on happenstance, accidental and sheer chance. It could have been anyone who walked by his room in the middle of the night, a lone witness to his screams and shame; but it had been Thor, Thor who offered himself as a confidante to his woe and worries, Thor who he had fallen in love with.

He hadn't expected for Thor's eyes to narrow, for his eyes to become nothing but pinpoints of pain, pinpricks of endless blue. Whereas there once had been a peaceful, tender air to his person, there was now true hurt layered in his eyes. His lips were pursed, questions unspoken and confliction leashed, as if fearful that if he spoke, if he let slip one thought, Steve would dissipate, slip into himself within the first sign of an uttered word. Steve watched Thor swallow, his throat bobbing once, Adam's apple springing up, silence clasping him in the equivalent of battle armor.

That fear lessened its hold, for Thor's words rang loud, for his ears alone. "Never. It is presumptuous of me to assume that you would remain at my side, no matter my clear intentions. I shall not leave you, Steven. I need you too greatly in my own desires, be they selfish or intimate, to consider such foolery."

That was it then: they were symbiotic, shared partners in their pain. To leave one another would be to abandon the remedy that had kept them alive thus far. To leave one another in this early stage of their development, to forsake everything they had come through would be to lay ruination upon their lives.

Steve reached for Thor, his fingertips steady, the tremor gone with this solidifying realization. This was about so much more than reliance and unhealthy need, so much more than about finding saviors who knocked on the doors of scared soldiers who would in turn comfort a wounded god, but about discovery, joy, a newfound light. Doubt, the past, the shadows that still tried to eat away at their colors; that didn't matter, and it didn't have any business interfering with this moment.

"I need you. I need you, too."

Their mouths met in a frantic union, tongues breaking through the seams of their lips, hands grasping, clasping at shoulder blades, necks, hands, faces, every caress and smile exchanged precious. Every so often, one of them would open their eyes, as if to make sure that this was true, that the one they were kissing was indeed solid, corporeal, unwavering in the brightness of the mid-day sun.

There were a lot of cures to nightmares, especially when they transcended into the daylight hours; this was one of them, the cure of an accidental but very welcome joining of warriors.

"Does this mean you really liked the portrait?" Thor chuckled against his forehead, the laughter rumbling from his chest, a comforting tenor to their flushed, kiss-elated states.

"I love what you have created in my honor, Steven." The result of Thor admitting that he loved what he made him earned him the subtle pressure of fingertips against the small of his back, heat pooling down his legs, tingling the tips of his toes. He all but melted against the thunderer, his thoughts muted, his body hanging in suspended, euphoric bliss, shivers scuttling down his limbs, igniting an implosion of warmth in his neck.

He'd made it this far. _They_ had made it this far. There was progress here, and it wouldn't cease with the finale of the day.

"I pray that my gifts will truly display my gratitude for the masterpiece you have given, showcasing my ardor for you, Steven."

Gifts? Yes, gifts. A balance, a commitment, rebuilding and forging, one breakdown and faced truth at a time.

"You should know by now that I'll love whatever you get me. Just...don't make it a crown, or anything too flashy." Thor grew silent, his soothing caresses stopping for but an instant, continuing after a moment's lapse.

"As you wish, Steven."

There it was, present and warm, strong and very much his: a welcome, a home in the arms of the storm's creator, true solace.

Boneless and free of worry, he fell into a twilight slumber, his eyelids heavy from drowsiness instead of fatigue. There was no Hydra, no tyrannical Norse God, no loss of friend and seventy years.

There was truth, a truth that let him sleep.

~-~-~

_"...If you're lost, you can look, and you will find me._

_Time after time._

_If you fall I will catch you I'll be waiting._

_Time after time..."_

_End of Part III_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is 89% done; two more events have to be written and then the conclusion is imminent.


	4. Every Certainty of Slumber, of Color Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to reiterate: this is a story about healing. The Captain breaking down at the end of the last chapter was my way of showing a catalyst of emotion that exploded, a relapse into all of the darkly-brimming emotions that Steve felt in the beginning of the story. I felt that it was necessary to show a sad side of Steve, to dig around in his mind and find what made him confused, ashamed, what he needed help with. That way, Thor would have a hand in helping him, which would in turn help himself deal with Loki’s fate, which is revealed in this chapter. 
> 
> That was why I reserved the sex for this chapter: it fit the flow of the story, and adhered to the thought of Thor waiting until Steve was comfortable. 
> 
> This is the end, without lies and all possibilities that could include, and for those that stuck with me, I offer you my hand of gratitude, and hugs from Thor muse, for he is very warm. 
> 
> HOWEVER it is in two parts, because having a thirty-something page chapter didn’t abode well with me for whatever reason. As weak as my promises are, of this I swear: soon as possible for the next part, as two more events need to be written and that is it.
> 
> I do have several other stories coming out with this pairing - several drabble collections - along with plenty of Frost Iron. I love me some Frost Iron. 
> 
> Ownership is with Elksine, for he believed in the Captain as much as I do.

_Part I of Part IV: Every Certainty of Slumber, of Color_

No matter how debilitating the past months had been, months filled with night terrors, self-belittlement and fully and truly attempting to shake himself from this sadness for his own health and mental benefit, true change was occurring within his world and the Earth he was created to protect.

He drove his motorcycle around the city, watching the onslaught of normalcy, business men, mothers, fathers, children at play, beggars, and go-getters and all the while, he allowed himself to marvel at the changes that had taken place in the world, instead of dismissing them as something that his mind would never be able to understand. 

Once, he had woken up in a frenzy, S.H.I.E.L.D trying to ease him into the vast alterations that had taken place over the past seventy years. No longer were there steel cars, but sleek, two-bodied models that claimed they were better for the environment, shipped from Italy or some foreign nation. Prices for the necessities were higher, but the food was rich, filled with more flavor than he could remember having tasted when he was little more than a young man, dreaming about taking stands and finding his place in the world. 

He was alive to see all of this, he was alive for a reason. He wasn’t alive to be the walking dead.

He was alive, wasn’t he? He was alive, with the full benefit of cherishing his time, with nothing holding him back but his own reluctance. 

That was why one Thursday morning on a whim, he found himself outside of the best diner in town, choosing to sit down and order something instead of bypassing the thought of integrating himself with the inner-city society entirely. 

What began as coffee turned out to be the largest serving of pancakes, eggs - sunny-side up - thick and meaty sausage, along with a third cup of the hottest coffee the diner had to offer. 

There was no trace of a stutter in his speech, nor was this a momentary bravery that would set him off on a course that he would later loathe, because he _would_ be able to repeat this, this ability to function, to smile at waitresses and have breakfast in a world that was new and strange.

New and strange could be rather fun.

Old habits never died. They had the power to linger, to seep into blood-cells, conducting pivotal points in life until the thought of beginning anew was seemingly lost. Seemingly, for when was anything how it appeared at a first glance, at the surface level, at the level of seeming itself? That meant that he could try again, start all over, and if by digging into a fresh batch of pancakes bright and early was what it took to rediscover himself, then he would by all means do just that.

He wanted to understand the alteration in flavor of the breakfast foods, the combination of ingredients that resulted in a feast that would have been off-limits to him before, the army diet keeping him strictly on protein and muscle-building meals, for what it lacked in flavor it made up for on the field - or so he had once been told. 

It felt good to take orders from yourself for once. 

Syrup drenched the cakes as he said grace, his eyes closed out of purely-borne respect, instead of a weariness as to what the darkness behind his eyes would bring. His fork met the plate, and he was met with a delicious breakfast, something that he would in earnest love to share with Thor. 

The coffee had to have been brewed with him in mind, the flavor rich, the sugar balancing out the bitter taste of the crushed coffee beans. It had nearly no effect on his system, but the texture was smooth, warmth lining his throat, mixing perfectly with the taste of the eggs and sausage. 

His smile was honest and easy as he tipped the waitress, giving her an extra bill for her service. She returned the gesture with ease, and when he called her ma’am, her laugh resonated through his body, pleasure spreading through his pores, the phantom throes of guilt dissipating at the thought that he had given a stranger amusement simply by his propensity of using proper manners. 

Simply by being himself, by existing.

He had the power to make people smile, to make them laugh. He had a purpose in a world that had long since changed upon his revival, and no matter the skyscrapers, dizzying city lights, and the profound amount of pollution, he had a place in it.

And that gave him a smile of his own, one that remained in place throughout the day, well into the week. 

Tony was the first to comment on the physical change to his demeanor, claiming that if he kept smiling like that, his face would remain that way forever, and they’d have to change his name to Captain Cheer, Sun-Spangled Brighty or Chuckles.

“If that goofy smile means you’re thinking about Thor, I’m happy for you buddy, I really am. But too much of this,” Tony gestured to his mouth, despite the fact that he was wearing an iron-welding mask “is starting to make me wonder. Did Bruce share his secret with you on how he remains docile all the time? If you’re Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds right now, good for you. Bruce, you can come out now and stop raiding the fridge, the secret’s out.”

This made Steve let out an exasperated, good-natured sigh. He tapped Tony’s mask with his index finger a few times. “Keep thinking, Stark. I’m just happy. Happy that I’m alive.”

Tony removed the mask, dabbed his forehead with an oil-stained rag and replied with a shrug. “I won’t bust your bubble, but yeah. I’m glad you’re no longer thawing out in some super-secret base somewhere. You have a place here, you’re our fearless, all-American leader, so on and so forth.” Sarcasm, when mixed with genuine praise, tended to be the highest form of a compliment Tony could wrest out on a good day. Steve took it to heart.

Steve clapped his shoulder, granting him a curt nod. “The Stark’s never give up on people. Thank you for that.”

He left Tony muttering something about how if they weren’t wary about these little meetings, they could easily become actors of some three-star, chick-flick, sissy-ass moment. Steve knew better: he had a place, he could speak, and there was nothing wrong with his sleep-pattern any longer, problems that connected to issues that had once robbed him of breath, of believing the truth of his importance, his role, his basic _belonging_. 

Especially since Tony had more or less been right, for though this new outlook on his very existence was inspired in large part by his own musings, Thor held a significant place in these revelations, revelations that were swallowed with the gall of acrid acceptance. There was nothing he could have done to save Bucky, nothing he could have done differently to have made that date with Peggy. The chance was gone, lingering in his memories and filed away documents only, marking the irrefutable proof that he was created by Erksine’s belief, and was alive today because of it. There was the cost of becoming another’s ideal, of being the admired hero of the nation; there was a price to understanding that ideals needed to be shrugged in order to find more than what the truth of society believed him to be. 

It was high time he ceased to believe that he needed to be punished. 

It was done and dead, the time to start forgiving himself for what he had been powerless to stop happened when he wished it to begin; he wished it, and then made that principle and mantra as real as he could, day by passing day.

This change in his disposition, from a smile that came easier and thoughts that were level and clear did not go without Thor’s notice. The god observed him with a tender eye daily, a gentle scrutiny of sky-blues reserved for his gaze alone; they were eyes that missed nothing, that were filled with direction, intensity that was purely his own.

“You appear at ease, Steven. I cannot remember a time I was met with a smile that equated to the Asgardian suns.”

The Norse God who shared his room had been stroking the planes of his left shoulder blade, his own cheek pressed upon the leeway of Thor’s chest, the music of his breathing nothing less than soothing. Steve managed to lift his head, balancing his chin on the triangle of space between Thor’s collarbone, shimmying up the god’s body until they were nearly eye-level. 

“You know I have you to thank for that, right? If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be wrapped up in my own thoughts.” Thor’s lips curled into his patented smile, genial in every way, knitted brows exuding silent encouragement. “I owe this to you. You sat at my bedside and promised that you’d shake me awake if I caused a fuss. In every way I guess...I _know_ , you really helped me.”

Thor’s smile had always been more than a quirk of his lips, this time being no different. Sun-tanned skin appeared to shimmer from some inner-elation that his words had brought to Thor’s mind, sky-blues dancing, the sapphire pools of his eyes alight from the fire of ten suns. Steve was wont to believe that his words had an impact on his love, as well as a healing effect that all but pervaded the other’s unmatched sense of spirit. That was a good feeling, the best feeling. 

“Your words please me in many ways, Steven. Flattery will remain my downfall, but in the manner that you speak of me, I take your words to full heart, my love.” Warm, strong fingers threaded through his hair, granting him a scalp massage, a gesture so intimate and soothing, Steve felt the brimming yearning to openly weep, weep with heedless abandon. Not for sorrow, for it had too long touched their lives but for joy, in the purest sense of the word.

There was no need for tears right now, no matter if they were spurned by feeling fully thankful, brought by peace. One wept in the presence of gods, but now was not the time.

So this was how it felt to be loved by a god, so stunning a sensation, so thought-numbing that it left little room for uncertainty. Loving deity’s meant that there was no obstacle in the way, no concept of mistrust, revealing nothing but a mirror, a reflection into the parts that both of them could never see on their own, could never witness without the eyes of another, spurned by these soft touches in the early morning, created by the myriad of inner-distresses that were silenced by gentle hands, tender looks. 

In the early morning, because Thor had officially moved into his room some weeks past. His drawers were now filled with an amalgam of Thor’s shirts and his own, the fabric of his garments smelling of something solely attributed to the thunderer, the freshness of the wind and the aroma of his favorite laundry detergent. 

To officially solidify their relationship in full, the weapon’s room held their weapons, now side-by-side. His shield was still protected by thick plates of glass, but instead of it being alone in its vibranium-laced glory, it was met in still tandem with Thor’s hammer - even though there was no one who could possess the power unless they were worthy and all of that jazz - as instruments of battle, meshed together in a dance of objects and clothing, inanimate objects of their own gravitating towards one another. 

When Steve began thinking like that, he just couldn’t help but smile, for what provoked the gesture to life served as a gentle reassurance in his memory, as the truth that even when he there was no way he could be next to his things, the notion of sentiment was there, pressed against his soul and spirit like the hand that caressed his neck, the lips that spoke truth alone, the purity that filled his heart. In every manner possible, they were connected, though to the rest of the team it might have been deemed something that couples just _did_ , the art of sharing closet and weapon space. 

Whether it was simple or something more profound, it still made him smile.

“Steven, this might not be the proper timing for a confession, but if you would allow me to confess something, I would be forever thankful.”

“Of course. Shoot, tell me.”

It was the least he could do for Thor, listening to whatever it was that he wished to talk about, no matter how serious or trivial. Their devotion to hear each other out branched out into yards of ribbon, far beyond the petty definition of repayment, of duty and obligation that stated that saviors had to be owed, that the wounded ones had to in turn do something of equal importance to their all-loving god. It spooled out without end, boundless and beyond direction, for the both of them had expressed that if they ever needed to speak, they need only ask.

Thor never sought out rewards for his actions, nor did he expect to be lavished with any form of gifts, no matter what his past claimed, be it written in history or in the very real events of his fall to Midgard. As consequence of a banishment that bound his lover in a mortal coil, Thor was taught everlasting humility and an understanding of the humans that he had once deemed beneath his attentions, battle-born strategies forged in the thick of that struggle, revealing themselves in the fray of an Avenger-related mission. If anything, at present, Thor tended to downplay his heroism and actions with a small smile and a transition of subject entirely. 

Modesty with princely-decorum, humble speeches and a true admission of his skills; the god was a walking equilibrium, a balance that could reveal any form of musing, be it austere or light of heart at any given point.

The thunderer met his gaze with a small nod, Steve’s silence the lattice to this act of divulgence, an act that made Thor’s mouth slip into a grim line, lips all but losing their tenderness. Whatever Thor was thinking about soured his present sense of self, affected him so deeply that the change was physical to Steve, an absolute reshaping of his face to shadows, to bitter resignation. For now, Thor was losing himself to the glut of memory, reliving an hour that had been pushed to the side, in the corner with the cobwebs until this very moment.

Whatever the confession, Steve would think no less of him.

“I returned from Asgard on the night I bore witness to my brother’s execution. ‘Twas the device on his mouth that rendered him incapable of lies, of his magic that was his prison, in ways that give birth to fanciful images of the banality that was bestowed to him. He was tortured for his treason, for his trickery and disruption of the peace to the Realms, Midgard being under the protection of the Odinson, for those who threaten the safety of humans answer to my hand.

“The trial resulted in a sentence to death, a private execution where only my father, mother and I were present. I shan’t say how he was killed, but I bore witness to animals that had been given more light of mercy in their last moments than he. My blood chills even now, recalling such images, a feat that is far too true.” Thor met his eyes, his own blue nothing more than limpid slashes, his face sorrow’s faithful paramour. Behind those eyes, eyes that lit up whenever they happened in his direction was a sadness without equal, a grief that Steve would never be able to understand, not only in the emotion itself, but where it derived from in total. 

He’d been an only child, the closest he had ever had to a brother being Bucky. For a moment, a moment paved in some eternity that granted his wish of wanting to empathize and comprehend Thor’s anguish, he placed himself in Thor’s position. He imagined himself powerless as he watched his brother’s progression into the clutches of madness and shadow play. He tried to imagine how it would feel, seeing a family member you grew up with slipping further and further out of reach until the only remaining sight was your own strained hand, wishing for the grasp of your brother, your beloved sibling, meeting nothing but cold, dead air.

The thought confounded him so deeply, confusion becoming awe within moments, as well as a terrible understanding that burned his bones, his heart. He had been right about Thor needing someone the night when he just couldn’t keep his screams to himself any longer, as well as the nights that followed. Thor had been cold, frozen to the core of his being at witnessing a sight that no brother, no family member should ever have to endure: the execution, the murder of one of their own. 

For whom could the thunderer turn, Steve’s mind managed to wonder, piecing together an epiphany that was too close to aftermath’s blade that the thought all but cut him: all others would consider this grief as betrayal, for how could one love such a terror, one who caused so much mayhem and devastation for the sake of self-exploration? Would the Warriors Three welcome the regaling of stories where he and Loki were younger, playing in the forests, by the streams, giving birth to imaginary fights with wooden poles and makeshift lances, reliving the good once more? Would his parents know what he had endured, no matter if they had raised their youngest child to the best of their ability, about the hopelessness that eclipsed Asgardian’s hailed hero? 

How would it feel, Steve wondered with a fair amount of trepidation, to be responsible for the death of your younger brother? Not only that, but being forced to cope and somehow exist with the guilt and mistakes that Thor re-lived, once and then again, over and over in the unrelenting cycle of vicious truths behind memory’s sight. Thor was the one who had taken Loki back to Asgard to await whatever punishment would befit his crimes, and no matter how relieved he had been to see both gods disappear with the flashing light of the Tesseract, that relief was clouded over with the poison of this new development, a grief that was now his own. It was raw, a physical infection against his skin that burned with his breath, his heart an aching, bitter-filled core of the body that did little more than filter blood and pound now; for what good was a life that had destroyed someone so important, someone who was your favorite, who would still always be your favorite?

At least, that was what empathy told him, what empathy for his lover allowed for Steve to feel; and feel he had, felt until his skin tingled, his mind and heart suffering for a brother that was never his own, no matter the label of the enemy of the world, the trickster and lie-smith of lore and myth the once Loki had managed to create for himself. 

Everything that had happened, every nightmare that rendered him as no more than a child, afraid of the monsters in the closet, every low point where functioning with the team was barely manageable, those profound moments of self-hate and all-encompassing doubt that made him question every belief he held to be truth, everything had led to this, this parallel revealing of pain that was very much real, real and tangible, slipping deep into their essence until they knew true misery. 

Steve had needed someone to lean on just as much as Thor craved the company of another, of someone who wouldn’t judge or misplace his grief for weakness; they were diametric no longer, nor had they ever been, ever since the night when Thor came to him, shaking him from the horrors that matched Thor’s own.

Eyes painted the blue of melancholy met his own, blinked thrice, pupils dilating, a world of ink and endless azure noting that he appreciated him listening, as well as empathizing with the cause of his bottomless sorrow; Thor’s eyes also stated that, if he continued to look at him like that, he would be able to heal, stitch by stitch, filling the void not by necessity but by a brilliant, accidental fluke of a soldier who found his heart to be to his liking.

Their deepest sufferings revealed, exposed by the pull of words and lips that fumbled and then became assured ignited equivalent therapy, the result far more than Steve could have ever fathomed, a result that he never wanted to change. 

Sorrow, their exchange of gazes claimed, could be auspicious, especially when a grieving Norse God and soul-searching super-soldier were concerned.

Steve lifted his chin from Thor’s neck, meeting his gaze with exposed intentions, silence creating more than words, more than their lips and throats ever could in this elongated, poignant moment. Their mouths met in a slow meshing of lips, the wish to savor this kiss, this instant carved from the instruments of pain mutual, the veracity that was a very present, very raw reality: they were together because of lingering wounds, from scars that served as a testament to the brutal and honest claim that time favored no man, no god. Had they never managed to find one another, no matter if one had been groping blindly, sightless in the hallways, seeking the source of the cry in the night while the one who cried had been ensnared in all-devouring terror, they would still be in that state of loneliness, without any knowledge on how to reach out for someone, on how to try and help their fellow teammate through their personal hell and in truth, their own.

The words whispered against his mouth were addled with emotion, slick with the still-fresh burn of sadness, the words unpracticed, rudimentary, as if they had never been given a chance to be spoken until right then.

“Sometimes, I still see his eyes in slumber. They were empty, but filled with his usual flare of mischief. They mocked me even then, even though I saw a scream within that green, a proclamation that I had never been his brother, that it was madness to believe otherwise. And the morning began afresh.”

Steve would have comforted Thor if his voice had become little more than detached sobs, his eyes clouding, filling with tears that were well-warranted, without blame of where such a display came from. Instead, there was only a senescent sadness deep within the god’s eyes, a statement to a very concrete truth: that no matter how many centuries he would live, no matter what fears or trials he faced, Thor would always remember what had happened to his brother and blame himself. His lion-heart and soul of gold would grant him no reprieve from anything less. 

There were elements of loss that resisted fading, grief coloring the world in shades that fell in-between color itself, the notion of a life without sorrow imprinting itself fully in the truth of the world, the world that guilt-mired eyes watched over.

That never meant, Steve could say with absolute certainty now, that there was not a one person who could help ease them from that state of mind, each reminding one another how to smile again, how to exist without demons of regret and blame. 

Steve raised his hand, fingers splaying gently against Thor’s eyelids, skin brushing against long lashes, insistent hands perusing the god’s eyes, telling him by touch alone, by the power it could inspire in the both of them that, if he needed to fall apart, if he needed to break, there was no safer place on Earth for such a display of emotion. 

Blue, fathomless blue glossed over, moisture flitting across an ancient gaze, pupils staining with fragments of a sky torn asunder by the claws and teeth of misery, the free-fall of two tears ignited by Thor’s inner-release. The tears were left to partially dry before they were wiped away by the gentle pad of Steve’s thumb, his mouth doing the rest of the work, not intending to cover up their existence, but by cherishing it, proving to the god that for once, he didn’t need to have such indestructible prowess; he could be weak with him, for Steve had been weak in front of him countless times. Now was Thor’s chance to fall apart, for the pieces would not shatter into the oblivion of solitude, but in his hands, against his lips and fingers. 

Safe. They were safe here, at 10 in the morning on a Sunday, the covers warm, limbs tangled in limbs, clasping to one another for their dearest life. 

Steve rested his forehead against the god’s own, his arms cradling Thor’s neck, easing the thunderer down against his chest. He felt spots of moisture gather against his shirt, Thor’s trembling frame revealing several more truths: Thor trusted him fully, in body and with his long overdue expression of grief, and gods might have been immortal, but they would never be invincible, beyond the limit of caring for siblings that had been lost to them for eternity. 

“Shhh. Hush, my love, hush.”

Steve had heard the cries of men before, the wounded and bleeding ones in the resolution of battles without point or cause, those hearts that had been forged by fire and steel surrendering fully to the physical pain that reduced them to little more than wailing boys, seeking an end to this torment of their limb-loss and fallen brothers. He would never forget the tenor of soul-jarring screams, shades of desperation and gut-wrenching cries that painted those black nights red. 

What he would also never forget was the way Thor trembled in his arms, sobs wracking his body, turning him into little more than a young boy, met with visceral and very-real death for the first time in his life. Steve imagined that this was how it felt to be thunder: a shaking, nimbus-colored device of energy, tremors lasting until the rain poured from its depths, releasing what had encumbered it since their development.

Gods could weep; his god could weep with open abandon, and he would think no less of him for it, especially since he had shared his own debilitation with him, all that time ago, the time that equated to yesterday and several years ago. 

Yes, Tony had been right: they were happy. But there were times when they had to succumb to their anguish, only to remember that neither were alone in this, that both had a hand in saving one another from what harmed and ailed the peace that they were deserving of, no matter if it was granted with a kick to the leg if they were having nightmares, or by an admission to yearning and raw displays of what made them human, no matter how long they would live. 

_‘That’s the secret Tony: letting go after awhile. That’s why we’re all smiles.’_

_ststststst_

Despite the speculations of his past that colored his present with the surname “living legend,” Steve was not above receiving affection or delivering it. If he let himself consider the past, nostalgic and painful though it continued to be, he took solace in the memory of Bucky letting him give him a small embrace every so often if the situation called for it, more so when they were no more than two kids growing up in Brooklyn, existing in the changes of a world that was beginning to tear itself apart by war. Steve didn’t know if he would have found himself of sound mind through his adolescence had Bucky not been at his side with inexhaustible tolerance to the woes that sprang up, festooning him and clouding his mind with pain, the one true comfort he felt granted only when Bucky’s arms locked around his shoulders, his friend’s voice a mantra that reiterated often about how it would all be alright. 

Broken though he may have been, and as frail as his body surely was, his mind was unbending, filled full with the hope that if he finished his plate of food, if he could grow just a little more, he would be able to set right the wrongs of the world. And, perhaps, he would be able to scare the terrors away with this newfound strength, those leering faces of antagonizers and those who opposed and took pride in beating up the little guy. Anything was possible with faith, with refusing to give up, with trying without ceasing, in going one more round. 

He had to hand it to naivete that those were very good lessons; lessons could always be rewritten, learned anew in a fresh state that was carved from the blades of malice that meant to do harm to still-budding heroes. 

One could only save others if they were able to save themselves he once believed, if they were able to build themselves up into a person who refused to falter, ground their heels into the gravel and took the blows that they didn’t deserve, all for the sake of a distant but still-there future in which patience persevered, punishing the wicked with just, swift blows.

Steve never ran away, nor did he ignore the praise and affection he enjoyed, when it was given. Meaning, all of those tales of an untouchable, ever-devoted and prominent soldier who was out of the reach of returning notions of intimacy was greatly exaggerated, along with everything else that shaded his name with the whispered word of legend, with the still-sung lyrics of awe that filled peoples’ minds with what he had accomplished, with his power and his abilities. 

There had been several sorts of fans that trailed after him in the 40‘s, starting with the star-struck, stunned individuals who approached him for an autograph or a picture during his touring of the country. Their hands shook, they tripped over their words and shoelaces, some outright refusing to get close enough for a proper photograph. As if he were no more than a figment of their imagination that chose to humor them with a delusion, a delusion created by red, white, and blue. As if he were no more than a phantom, set to disperse within a show of smiles in tandem and the blinding white of the camera shutter. 

Did he exist then? Did he exist as no more than an ideal?

When one was in the unforgiving, harsh limelight for more than could be asked of an ordinary man, the concept that loss of friend and brother, time and too-fresh disappearance of peace could harm him was deemed not only laughable, but unnecessary, a veering from the goal of what had been asked of him. 

There were also those who requested requirements of himself that he had known all along, demands that he had no choice but to duly meet. He was made invincible for a reason, right? Kill Hitler, stop the war, bring their husbands, their brothers, their cousins, their important people home to them. He agreed to faces first, and then lips outlined by carmine, followed by a plethora of hats and sweaty handshakes; after awhile, the faces began to blur, skin forming a sequence of mouths and voices working of their own accord, words meshing, embedding and creating an indelible burden on his physical person, the armor and costume forgotten. It was not Captain America that they asked these things, but Steven Rogers, the kid from Brooklyn who jumped at the chance to send the bullies back to the shadows, to the rot, to the cell where they belonged. 

The world saw an impossibility, a man of strength who became a knife, a battering ram, the weapon of the nation forged from the roots of normalcy, from the belief of a scientist who saw more than a petite, scrawny-built kid who barely filled out his uniform.The world saw Captain America, a being that didn’t feel pain, who always won in the end, a man who didn’t have the need to find something in common with his fellow man and current team, beyond the bindings of the thread of battle-born necessity. He needed only victory the world claimed, his outfit and shield, for he was no more than an ideal, a hero that could appeal to the American masses as the hero that they needed to believe in, out of turmoil’s uncertain future. 

That might have been true seventy years ago, when he had little say in the matter of what America saw, of what the nation could witness when they went out to the movies, the local comic book store to trade bubble-gum cards and posters with his face, but that didn’t have to dictate the now, the now that he had all but woken up to in a state of fresh, cold panic that blind-sighted him for the longest time. He had been lost, caught up in what was expected, demanded, seen as clear as day, scrutinized and picked at until he fully believed that was what he was: no more than a hastily strewn together assemble of ingredients, hoping, praying to create a hero that cast no shadow, that revealed no hint of anything but the best parts of mankind. 

No. No, he wasn’t that at all. 

Time had sung over his head, the notes clear and sweet, ringing with the ill-accepted truth that time had passed, that based on his actions, he had survived in the ice, awaiting the fires that would pave a way to his next battle, to the time when he was given the chance to prove that he was more than what an old way of living believed. The thaw was here, the baritones and notes of yesteryear beyond his capacity for listening, leaving only a warmth that he basked in with every inhalation that opened his lips and mouth, his nostrils meeting sweet, spring-time air, no illusion or fabricated dream of a past frozen state. 

He was Steven Rogers still, the kid from Brooklyn who may or may not have proved a lot of people wrong, a man who had a hand in stopping the War, the first grandiose creation of science and might, muscle and unchallenged bravery. He was Steven Rogers, a guy who could potentially lead the Avengers, take command in a new world, new elements of change inspiring him instead of daunting him to inaction, to silence, hiding out in a shadow-world of nightmares of his mind’s inner-devising. 

And above all, beyond what the past claimed, what he had once believed and every hint of doubt tried to shear from him: he enjoyed intimacy, the affection that he had long since been denied. 

This profession, a profession spoken over breakfast on a Wednesday morning in autumn, wispy patterns of sunlight playing across the Norse God’s face who accompanied him, along with tireless understanding that made Thor who he was, was received with silence, a nod every so often, and an order of the endless pancake special. 

“I don’t think that it’s too much for us to ask for someone to see us for who we really are, me outside of comic books, old tapes and papers, and you outside of what you had done in the past. Even if it’s one another, you know?”

There was no hesitation when Thor gripped his hand, holding it for all the world to see on the marble, pock-marked table, their hands entwined over the napkins and the bites of toast and packages of strawberry jelly the waitress left with them. 

“Aye, Steven. It is not too much to seek out one who wishes for another to see them, raw and pure, without setting the wolves of judgment upon their flesh. We were at fault for believing that we were deserving of anything less than what we feel now, at the present moment.”

All of this was said with the threat of someone overhearing them, of someone listening to their conversation with ill-intent, to expose them to the papers, to the news, to anyone nosy and desperate enough to connect the secrets of two men to the heroes who the media had made a mockery and saviors of. There was no one with fleeting, darting eyes who glanced in their direction, no one who claimed that the sight of two men enjoying breakfast together, with a reassuring mesh of fingers over the table was anything to be ashamed of. They were not thrown out by scorn’s fiery reasoning that would have marked their heads in Steve’s time as sinful creatures, inflamed with lust; they were allowed to sit there, speak with one another, and enjoy a breakfast the day before his birthday, weariness a distant stranger and vitality and joy a welcome substitute, made so by the glint of the warm, blue eyes of his love. 

There was nothing that could be said to the god’s words, nothing more than an admission that would reveal so much more than words ever dared. Shaking self-conduct to the side, without so much as considering if there were any children or elderly in the vicinity, or if the waitress was coming back with their check - which, they were splitting - Steve leaned across the table, pressing his lips to Thor’s with one, two, three brushes of his mouth against soft, smiling skin. 

It had become routine, whenever the two of them admitted something terribly open to one another during the night, hidden by the shades of darkness and the heat of their bodies to meet with each other the following morning, recounting it as reality, as something that neither of them had to be ashamed of. If Thor happened to cry out in the night, seeking vengeance and retribution for those that had so betrayed Loki, Steve would comfort him, soothing him from the thoughts that howled to him in visions that he’d had a hand in forsaking his younger brother. If Steve happened to remember something especially painful, something that he couldn’t shake off as easily as other memories, Thor would roll his body on-top of his own, massaging the corners of his shoulder-blades, the space in-between that left him a boneless, elated soul, tender and careful hands working out the tension, the terror of all things gone and past with the probing of heated touches. Breakfast was a precursor not to apologies, but to understanding that it was alright to fall apart, to be human, to let themselves be exposed in this way, to let themselves feel whatever it was that they were feeling, without any implication or foresight of guilt. 

They had nothing to lose, for there was little left for them to abandon the best parts of themselves to; there was nothing but rebuilding, in shirking aside the notion that they had become overweening in their beliefs of self-improvement, in considering that it was alright to roam here, in a state of bliss brought on by the knowledge that they had found one another, be it through situational battles and the onslaught of emotion but nevertheless, _together_. 

Us, we, you and I. New words, new phrases, all for the 21st century that had so much left for him - for them - to explore, so much to speculate on. 

To counter Steve’s gift of the portrait - of which, Thor asked for a frame so that he could look upon it every single day in their shared room - Thor granted him several presents over the course of a full-week, a week in which he had to return to Asgard in order to procure them. 

“Should there be any way that would enable me to remain at your side, I would take these measures within the beat of a heart that is rightfully yours.” Steve shook his head, reassuring the god in their way of speaking without words, in tender touches to the eyes, the brush of fingertips over chins and the spaces in-between jaw-bones, “loving pets” that apparently, made Tony a little uncomfortable when he walked in on this at 6 in the morning in the kitchen. 

For a week, Steve took the necessary precautions in case a sudden relapse of his character occurred, for his crutch, his confidante, his other half was just suddenly gone, dispersing within a funnel of the winds and the silver-song of his rightful hammer. He made sure to expel plenty of energy during his days, exercising and following through on minor missions during the week so that his mind would be tired, as well as speaking with his fellow teammates, carrying on as usual, as if nothing was wrong, missing, gone within the expanse of a few breaths. 

None treated him like glass, as if there was something truly the matter, and for that, Steve was thankful. The last thing he wanted was for teammates that were steadily and slowly becoming his friends thinking that they needed to treat him as someone fragile, as someone who needed to be coddled in the absence of his significant other. However, he couldn’t say that he minded when Natasha granted him genuine smiles after missions, when Clint offered to take him on a small, three-hour field trip of a panoramic view of the city-sights, pointing out where he normally surveyed the crime and how they could make this regulation to seek out wrong-doers. He also didn’t mind when Bruce poured him a cup of tea and offered to show him something that he always found neat, an equation, when met with a few components, that would temporarily turn the team invisible in missions that demanded the utmost accuracy and precision. And he didn’t necessarily mind when Tony pulled him aside, telling him that it was alright if he missed his buff, smiley boyfriend, and if he needed to spend time in his lab for personal reasons, that his door was open. 

That was proof enough of his earlier delusion, the misunderstanding that nearly destroyed his inner-solace: his team was more than strangers brought together by talents and necessity that shared living quarters when the situation called for it. They all brought out something in one another, be it an emotion, a way of living, a mooring of spirits and unassailable strength that would match them all up equally, creating a true shield, true heroes who would avenge and stand up for beliefs, especially when it was one of their own that was trying very, very hard not to miss a certain someone. 

And if it meant that distractions that weren’t necessary but very welcome were played upon, acted out by their own characters and wants, then Steve was thankful to them. 

He didn’t need to take the elevator down to Tony’s lab, speak with Jarvis or ask what in God’s green earth Tony was doing with all of those dangerous chemicals, because there were no nightmares. There wasn’t anything that happened after lights out other than lights out, an absence of light that procured rest until his alarm, for the full seven days that Thor was absent from his bed. He missed the warmth, the reassuring cadence of breathing that revealed that he wasn’t alone, that the heat beside him was not the cold that once threatened his sleep, that the sun swept up and fashioned in an Aesir’s build would be enough to chase away a darkness that nearly choked him, gagging him in the restraint of his own silent proclivities. 

In this absence, forged by the promise of gifts, of getting something that Thor had made for him, a mettle had been fashioned by his own mind that he didn’t think he’d had it in himself to find, much less live with for seven days and nights. They had, in every sense of the word and phrase, brought out the best, the strongest in each other. 

Seven days and nights had been the minimum estimation, because at 2 in the morning on the seventh night, Steve rolled over in his sleep, dreaming of nothing more than heat and a time of peace to find true bodily warmth, embodied by the peace brought on by hammer-wielding hands. His eyes opened, only to meet the exhausted body of a very early, very considerate Norse God, curled around his own body’s frame as if by patterns of intimacy that were expressed in somnolence, gentle snores wracking his chest, eyes stirring behind their lids. On a sleep-drunk tongue, Thor murmured something about completion, about days of birth that were steadily approaching, and that he wasn’t going to be away from Steve for little more than a day, lest he take him to Asgard with him. 

Touched beyond words, speculating on gilded halls and twisted spires of fantasy that existed in something called the Nine Realms, Steve fell asleep, resting against the one who he missed beyond what he could describe. 

In the morning, Thor revealed a small parcel, bound in a cloth that looked as if it had been spun in sapphire and gold, and when he asked, Thor stated that it was the colors he associated with him, and that yes, they were real precious gems.

“The blue of oceans, calm, temperate, at times roiling with a passion that is unleashed, as well as gold, a sharp color afore and beyond taupe, beige, brown, of sands and sunlight, marking the halls of Valhalla and the ne’er tarnished halls of Odin’s treasury. Strong, mighty colors, woven to cover a morning feast.” 

With his patented smile, matched with a soft peal of laughter, Thor lifted the cloth, revealing a feast that was decadent in scent, the aroma making his mouth water with the first sniff of what was beneath the wrapping. There was bread, but it wasn’t just bread: it was a loaf fresh from the oven, rimming with far more than wheat. It appeared as if there were nuts in the crust, herbs that would ignite flavors on his tongue that would result in him licking his fingers and corners of his mouth, covered in jam and cheese that would put every five-star eatery that Tony raved about to shame with every taste and mouthful. The jam was forged with berries that Steve hadn’t even heard of, names that he tried to commit to memory, his tongue forming the syllables with an ease that would come with practice, the effort making Thor smile, for he was trying to understand his language, as Thor was trying to understand Manhattan and the 40‘s.

“There is a significance to this feast, as it binds the two who share it, be it in the bond of warriors afore a battle that tests their character, brothers and sisters who wish to remain connected even if they are forced to separate through the trials of their lives, as well as lovers, lovers who are as diametric as the sphere that conducts the darkness and the celestial orb that brings heat to the day.”

Breakfast in bed, the Asgardian way, in every sense of the word. They would be committed then, with eating this together, with feeding one another and with everything that could happen here then; permanence slipped into the words, lingering on the explanation, sapphire eyes sure and true on his own, eyes that were so sure of their decision to make this feast, to be bound to him. 

This wasn’t wedding rings, or a wedding or anything, but it was something very similar, something that Steve wouldn’t be able to feel a shred of fear for if he tried. 

He met Thor’s lips, his answer coming in a small murmuring of acceptance, of gratitude, in statements that he would eat with him, every bite of bread, of cheese, of the grapes that looked like they were the size of jewels, and place the cloth somewhere safe. Hands caressed his back, fingers curling under the fabric of his shirt, nails splaying gently against his skin, tendons and pores set alight by the warmth that he had missed, the warmth that he had come to associate as his own. 

“Is this permissible, my love?” Steve smiled against Thor’s mouth, his happiness becoming Thor’s own as a tongue snaked over his lips, easing the seam of his mouth open, exposed, recalling their promise of time, that at some point, they would consummate, couple, make love.

No time like the present. 

“Yes, yes of course,” he managed to breathe out, the revelation of what was about to take place world-shattering, jarring to his bones and blood. But there was no need for fear, for anything other than the gentle grip of his lover to slip between the cage of his ribs, his heart thudding, serving as a testament to Thor’s ears alone, that he was the one who inspired such a reaction from him, something that would be no more than life, than what would come of this morning, this feast, and the days to come. 

Steve felt his shirt slip from the opening of his head, his neck lavished with the praise of soft lips, words that murmured about his beauty, the strength and golden-light of his muscles, the un-binding of chains that had long since bound his heart, the small part that claimed that he was good enough for no one, the part that was forced to remain invisible, the boy that couldn’t dance and was overlooked. Importance marked his flesh, his clavicle, his pectorals, lips creating warriors of purity and goodness to defeat his doubts, red seeping through his flesh, his breathing giving birth to notions that had long since been lost, intimacy here, thriving, open.

Attention was given to his stomach, teeth slipping from their sheath of gums and lips, moans spilling from his mouth, pursed and open for whatever he would feel now, for what was coming now, in time, in this moment, creating the world that he hadn’t the chance to seventy years ago. Fingers that lost the tremor, their trembling searching with confident abandon through gold hair, gripping sun-spun tresses with every thrust of a tongue, of the curve of a canine against the skin of his ribs, every concept of immodesty and waiting scattered, for there was no better time than now. 

His eyes opened and closed, meeting different sights with every bat and blink of his eyelid, sights that filled his veins with joy, elation coating his skin in the patina of epiphany’s delight, the truth of a forward march into true creation, into what could come from sorrow, from dutifully endured pain and wounds that spread far deeper than the fibers of bones and the immoderate tendencies of memory. There was Thor, meeting his eyes every so often, a crinkle of skin at the corners of his eyes marking the present smile, his lips open and there for him, pressed to his belly, his pectorals, his heart, oh his heart his heart, an enchanting mix of lapis and a gathered storm deep within the blue of timeless pupils, a brow once marked with lines free, fresh and new, without the drain of youth marring the skin of a god. 

His fingers searched for Thor’s clothing, his hips connecting with the shoulders of the one above him, the one reveling in his skin, meeting the lining of a thin t-shirt, tugging it above Thor’s head to free the god of the upper-half of his clothing with a shared smile. Steve lifted himself up on his elbows after a final kiss was placed against the skin of his heart, a gesture that left him without breath for several moments, a gathering of thoughts coming when Thor settled him on his lap, falling fully backwards, succumbing to their act of tandem.

He began with Thor’s face, stroking his eyelids with ease, with their shared practice in memorizing one another’s faces with their fingertips, kissing his lips with a steadily increasing pressure that stole his breath for the second time, the act filled with such intoxicating heat that it all but obliterated the parts of him that had lingered in the ice beneath the ocean, freeing him fully with the act of lips on lips. His fingertips caressed Thor’s cheeks then, noting the difference of skin tone, the texture of his beard to his sun-kissed skin, bathed with a subtle coloring of his cheekbones, brow flushed with their acts, small beads of sweat gathered at his scalp-line, droplets that he brushed away with searching, wandering fingers. 

His lips mapped against Thor’s jaw-line, his eyes closed, tasting rays of sunlight, un-complication and boundless honesty, the evidence of his bones, the curvature of the leeway between his neck and shoulder. The arm he was met with was corded with thick muscles, veins pumping with progress, with a humility that Steve found beguiling, astonishing, the taste of wonder-struck musings thick on his tongue, coating his mouth with the divulging of sensory details that were scattered against his lover’s skin, across his pectorals, stars lining his stomach, the universe held deep within his body. There was the ozone, the petrichor scent of rain, lightning sheathed in his mouth now, thunder against his skin, rumbling, leaving it in his own hands to command the storm, a god granting him the free reign that no mortal in countless lifetimes had the ability to do. 

There was nothing frantic about the next sequence, segmented parts that matched the whole, a removal of pajama bottoms, briefs, eyes drinking in naked skin, flesh made golden and pure by the sunlight that soaked the room in gold and white. Hips connected, and neither fell backwards, angles of bodies, of bone and structure looming only up, for neither wanted to fall back, to lie down, to remain in nothing more than an upright position. Calves wrapped around lower backs, ankles digging into the soft expanse of hip-bones, breaths caught, stolen, kept inside for when this would rip it from their lungs, as love was wont to do. 

Fingers probed, preparing, comfort inspired by a joining of mouths, of whispered words that were meant for their ears only, words made whole by a sharp hissing of breath, a clicking of teeth, a fluttering of eyelids and exposed columns of throats. There was pain, fingernails scrabbling for relief on bare backs, bodies begging for not release but an end to this, to the intrusion, to the wavering of vision that clouded over in claret-washed torment, staining the room with an unrelenting song of equilibrium, pleasure and suffering combining. 

An ending to pain was met, inspiring Steve to give Thor’s hips a gentle grip, urging him deeper, hips meeting his in a disjointed, ungainly rhythm, a cadence of bodies stirring, something shifting, a creation without flaw, perfection echoing around the room, bouncing back to their ears, mingling with steady, ever-increasing breaths. 

There was no hiding in this, no disguising the way that they fit, the hungry meeting of their mouths increasing the way they pushed against one another, thankful, ever so thankful that something was pushing _back_ , meeting them halfway and then again, once more, abandoning them not in their hour of need and commitment. 

Chests heaved, all reckless abandon and endearment, cries gurgling from their throats easing out of the closed shell of their mouths by the way they were met by the joining of their hips, the way fingertips caressed the hollow curve of a back, of a strong neck. There was no masquerading their gasps, no withholding of the dizzying sensation of near-climax, no articulating of the surrender of this act, no description necessary for the way eyes were branded with star formations, nebulae against the dark parchment of eyelids. 

The page that Steve had once envisioned, that blank slate that he was never given the chance to fill was suddenly scripted by ink, eloquence and poetry, a world built of towering purple mountains and snow-caps, sun-drenched days and shifting ocean tides that whispered of eternal rebirth, loss exchanged for acceptance, elation in the place of night-time suffering. 

He was shaken, and was stirred, lassitude forthcoming to the both of them, their limbs releasing, easing from one another only to settle against each other’s bodies, framed by the curve of arms, of naked limbs and hands that traced hip-bones, cheeks, lips that pressed to noses, lips, hair. 

They were one another’s; they were healed.


	5. Every Certainty of Slumber, of Color Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter melted my heart, made me cry, and gave me a good parting feeling for this finale. I have my drabble collection with them, “What Buoys Me (Your Resolute Amity) and another coming out just as soon as possible, along with a story that stars them, and Tony with Loki. Rewriting Marvel movies, one prompt at a time thanks to _seizure7._
> 
> This one is for you guys. Thank you for making me feel so joyous by creating this, and for enjoying this pairing as much as I do. From the bottom of my heart, you have my gratitude.
> 
> Here’s to AUs, superheroes and how they inspire us, and this beautiful pairing. Steve and Thor, thanks guys.

_Every Certainty of Slumber, of Color, Part II_

Throughout the week, Thor had granted him several other presents that he had expected fully, for Thor had hinted as subtly as he was able to about how much he would enjoy them when he understood their meaning. 

None of this was made privy to the team, but there was no disguising the little skip in his step during that week, a week that made Clint smirk at him as if he knew precisely what was going on in the training showers, knowledge that made Tony alter between making gagging noises and outright inquiries on the consummating of the marriage.

“You know, if you two ran away and got hitched in Vegas a week before your birthday, I am both hurt and a little flattered. Hurt, because the craps table is my dear friend and I could have thrown you something as small as you would have liked - with fireworks - and flattered because you knew what you wanted and went for it.” Tony’s pride all but filtered through his gaze, for it showed Steve that Tony was that way and every-time, he got what he wanted. 

Steve sighed and shook his head at the marital insinuations. “Sometimes things aren’t as they appear.” And with that, he left the grousing scientist and royal-pain-in-the-ass to his musings about whether or not he and Thor were legally bound or not. Mysteries could be fun. 

The bread that had been the precursor to their first “official” time sleeping together and consummation of their relationship had been true to the assumption, delicious. The loaf all but melted against his tongue, the flavors permeating through his taste buds, as if in the attempt to bury itself deep within his memories. It wasn’t enchanted, but it was made with all the care and the act of courtship behind the wheat, and every ingredient was selected, the yeast rising and bound immediately in the resplendent cloth so as to remain as warm as possible for the trip back to Midgard. The grapes were unlike anything he had ever tasted here, even in the local farmer’s markets and places that used no artificial sweeteners to saccharine the organic fruit. They were sweet, seedless, and as far as he was concerned, the best grapes he’d had in his entire life. 

To his chagrin, Thor caught him sucking his fingertips after the last grape was gone, and as cause, was met with a hearty laugh, a gentle squeeze to his shoulder revealing how the act had not made him think his lover fatuous or swine-like. 

“I am glad they please you so; I selected them myself from a forest and trekked back to the palace to place immediately in the cloth. There are many sweet fruits known to Asgard and I shall bring you back many.”

Steve immediately thought of a fridge and a crisper filled to the brim with a glut of seemingly mutated mangoes, peaches that seemed to possess an inner-shimmer to the skin of the fruit, and all the grapes he could eat, balanced on his stomach as he was being read poetry. 

“If I’m not careful, I’m going to become used to being so taken care of.” Mischief was not known to touch the sky-blues Steve adored, but this time was the exception. The truth all but sang through Thor’s eyes: that was exactly what the Prince of Asgard wanted, for Steve to be used to someone dotting on him, someone taking the extra mile to prove that he was special, worthy of this privileged treatment. 

“You see through my scheme yet; how am I ever to remain secretive around you?” The hand that had settled in its place against the meat of his shoulder slid down his back, Steve responsively leaning closer until he was nearly sprawled against the god’s lap, his nose and mouth against Thor’s neck.

“I don’t like secrets. I like surprises though, but I’ve always thought there was a difference.” His voice held a wavering tremor in the syllables indicating just how deeply, how sensitive his back was to this tender treatment. This provoked the god further, granting him a massage against his bones through his clothing, eyelids fluttering closed against Thor’s neck.

“I am allowed to surprise thee? At least, to attempt a valiant effort?”

“Of course; go bananas.”

Thor had no idea what this meant, but after an explanation of the hyperbole and the expression that meant to “go crazy” he laughed with genuine mirth. It was a happiness that was not on tentative ground, but one that had been earned - not poorly bought at the expense of the miseries of others - but remained as a show of what they had passed through, what they were still passing through. It was the laughter of someone who was beginning to feel better.

“I shall keep that in mind; your next gift shall be hidden until you have use of it.” Steve wondered if he would find a little furry animal in his sock drawer or a plate of meats being set at his usual place setting for dinner, but the reality was far more solid. 

In fact, it all-but glimmered. 

His shield was in dire need of a replacement strap, and no matter how many times Fury claimed that he could always hire someone to make sure his shield remained top-notch and prepared for battle, he preferred to polish and replace the straps himself. There was something oddly soothing about the route and rhythm of shining the star emblem, of understanding how the shield had been made, of recollecting in his memories without falling into the mayhem of his thoughts, the murk far from his present state, this happy state. It was important to know where you had come from.

What he found the day he chose to replace the strap had elicited a double-take, suspect vandalism or some un-amusing joke Tony paid him - as pay-back for not telling him about why there was an extra smile on his face as of late - but the truth was little less than the next set of promised presents. 

He believed that they were runes, runes emblazoned with gemstones that glittered against the vibranium and the paint that polished his shield to a spherical device of protection, of severing. At least, he thought that was what they were called. Symbols perhaps, symbols that no human or earth language could distinguish, symbols that were filled with rubies and diamonds, hints of sapphire lining the edges of the shield. 

Instead of making the weapon appear feminine in any manner, or ostentatious as he feared, it added a certain gleam, a touch of weaponry that made the shield sing, proclaiming to all that he could both guard and emit beauty, both protect and reveal that there was more to him than red, white, and blue. 

If anyone ever claimed Thor didn’t listen, that would earn them a one-way ticket to getting their head slapped by his own hand. 

“How in the world did you manage to place this here without being seen?” Thor chuckled faintly, pressing his fingers against the handiwork that had been made of his shield. 

“That means that you find my tampering of your weapon permissible? I did no wrong?” Thor was many things, but pensive and doubtful of his actions would never be him. Until right now, until he had something to feel nervous about, someone to inspire this sort of fear within him. 

And that person, to his disbelief and inner-skepticism, was _him_. 

In some ways Steve reasoned, the god now knew how Steve felt when he had handed over the profile he had made of him, with the many emotions that arose as consequence of such a profound exposure of his soul, a gift from the heart that was known to inspire such feats, the thought that maybe he had pushed too far. There was no such thing with them.

It was Steve’s turn to squeeze Thor’s shoulder, clapping his back in a friendly show of affection that was reflected in the mirrors of the weapon’s room as being simply that: friendly. The hand that lingered and released only to grip the god’s hand showcased so much more, an admission that Steve would let anyone witness without shame or fear of being too intimate in public. 

“I really like this. And it’s activated by my fingers?” The gems would reflect off both sunlight and the moon, and if Steve chose to fly low on the radar, he would simply brush his fingers against the gems and runes, his desire to remain invisible transferring to the living and breathing decoration. The gift to choose freely, the gift of understanding that he was more than the costume, more than a weapon and fail-safe. 

“Only by yourself; I forfeited all ownership when I placed the enchantment upon it. This took a little more care, but my payment remains in my sights,” Thor stated all the while never taking his eyes off Steve’s “a reward that I never knew I could gain.” 

No matter how often he was with Thor, and no matter how often the god’s tendency to compliment him and treat him as if he was the greatest creation in existence, his skin always managed to retain a heated flush whenever such exchanges were made. His neck tingled and he was certain that he was blushing, blushing like a girl at the sock-hop who found that her partner could cut the rug and cut it good. 

And no matter how often he tried, he couldn’t disguise the coloring of his cheeks from Thor, who found it breathtaking, - the god’s choice of words not his own - such a raw show of feeling. 

“This means a lot to me, so much to me. Thank you.” His fingers traced the symbols while Thor explained that they were runes for protection, granting him the worthiness of Asgard, of the Realms entire, as well as the show of just who gave him such a decoration: the Odinson, marking him as the official consort and partner of Asgard. 

It had been permanent the moment Thor had pledged fealty to his person all that time ago in the darkened night, that if there had ever come a day when the world suddenly had no use of him, a day in which he was rendered comatose and frozen on ice, he would seek him out. This was just further evidence of what could come from words, what came from confession and growing close with another, with a fellow warrior who knew him better than almost anyone in the world at his current state. 

As such, gratitude was given in silence, his eyes seeing nothing more than the tender gaze he was bestowed, his shield placed away with a gentle stroke of the armor which activated the symbolic decoration and gems for all to openly see. This granted him a guide to the wall, his mouth captured by willing forces, lips dripping with sentiment that was for his ears alone, wandering hands finding where they needed to be, lost warmth and limbs knowing no more loss. 

The knock on the door to the weapon’s room detached them momentarily, and they greeted Clint with a nod, Thor not bothering to disguise the way his hair had all but been parted to the right with Steve’s passionate carding and Steve wondering if the mark that bruised his neck was really as purple-red as he believed it to be. 

Clint met their pleasantries with a two-fingered wave as he grabbed three items, one of which looked like a very dangerous explosive device to be attached to arrows. Steve liked to think of Clint as the member of the team that missed nothing, and he had been one of the two who had bet that there was something going on between him and Thor far before he and Thor knew there was something going on themselves. 

“That’s why I knock; I don’t wanna interrupt anything in any room. You didn’t need to stop on my account.” The arrow-smith winked and did a half-jog and skip out of the room, off to either greet Natasha or work on some invention that would leave any further gods of mischief hurtling off the backs of aliens. 

Neither were too sure on what happened, but they knew that the mood hadn’t been killed between them so much as it was slaked until they found their bedroom, and as such, both Thor and Steve left the room, grinning like two lovelorn fools who didn’t have a care in the world. This was how it felt to feel carefree, to forget culpability and leadership and simply _be_ , no matter if they had been caught in the act by a very intelligent, all-knowing archer.

Said all-knowing archer suddenly appeared in their line of vision not moments after they exited the room and if Steve could give his opinion, he would say that Clint seemed to be hanging from the door jamb, or the rafters by little more than his shoes. Were there shoes that could do such a thing nowadays, allow for Clint to walk on walls? Nothing would surprise Steve any more if that was truth. 

With a wry smile that became a cheeky grin, Clint‘s purpose was revealed with a single sentence. “Oh, and happy early birthday!” The arrow-smith flipped himself up, seeming to disappear in the rafters that he was most comfortable perching in. If he lived in the ceiling, that wouldn’t surprise Steve in the least. 

Thor declared that he rather liked Barton and Steve was inclined to agree, not only to admiring the man’s quirks with his obvious skills, but with the steadily growing reminder that he had been wrong in the most beautiful and self-salvaging way. The Avengers were far more than forced roommates and battle-buddies; they were thoughtful and earnest in their own way and right, some choosing biting humor, others with gentle and barely-there smiles, or in the manner of allowing lab access at all hours of the night. 

They were not only co-existing because of necessity; they were getting along because they wanted to be.

And that made it a very early happy birthday indeed, knowing that the team that he was in the process of attempting to lead was making not only nice but very nice with each other. 

It was good to be wrong sometimes.

_ststststst_

There was the proof that he had survived another year with the passage of time, marking his day of birth as something that he celebrated with silent gratitude. Another year to make himself that much braver, that much better, more days to strive for self-improvement that he hoped would benefit the world in which he lived. 

That didn’t necessarily mean that he had ever made it a big deal. He had remembered little presents and a breakfast that his mother prepared in his childhood, waffles, pancakes, eggs and bite-size sausage for her growing boy. She couldn’t afford a bicycle or that new robot that was advertised on the television, but she bought him clothes that fit snug to his body, clothes that didn’t need to be darned for the third time that year, a new pair of pants or a much appreciated pair of tennis shoes or loafers. And every year, she had made him a small cake with butter-cream frosting, lighting a single candle in the middle of the messy scrawl of his name for him to blow out, for him to wish for something, anything his heart desired. 

He had always wished that he could get bigger, stronger, better than he was before. If he had the capability of changing himself so that he could take care of his mother, of his friends, then perhaps he could learn to take care of the world. 

_‘Give me the strength to make a change. God, give me the strength to make it.'_

His wish was not only answered but fulfilled in the truest way possible. By all laws of science, he was lucky to be alive. A serum that could turn a scrawny little kid with health problems off the charts into the nation’s best and brightest super-soldier? That sounded far too good to be true, far too dangerous to be anything other than a gamble on his life. 

But it was a chance. It was a chance that he took and had the guts to follow through on, even when his blood was burning in his veins, when his body was screaming that he’d had enough, that there was no way that he could survive this. They would sooner wheel out a corpse than they would create something worthy enough, tall enough or battle-ready enough to serve his country. 

_‘Give me the strength to survive this. God, give me the strength to survive this, I’m begging you.’_

And survive, the little numbers on his clock that presented the neat hour of midnight on July 4th presented that he had bested the odds, survived against the brutality of fire and the trial of ice, and not only survived, but flourished. 

That was as good a cause to celebrate as any, the truth that he was alive and breathing instead of locked in some fridge or heavily-guarded room, dripping his days away until his heart beat coursed harsh, cold life back into his body. 

_‘I was given the strength to survive this. God, you gave me the strength to survive. Let me live in the moment today, no matter what the day may bring.’_

Thor had watched the numbers on the clock click with him, for he had insisted on staying up with him to celebrate in the cool, dark light of their shared room. 11:34 p.m was recorded first, their conversation hushed and low, kisses exchanged and fingers interwoven together. 11:50 p.m came around when Thor drowsily poked his head out from the space in-between Steve’s shoulder blade, cheerily reciting the time. Ten minutes and he’d be old enough to be an aging man in a soldier’s body, in a young man’s body. 

When 12:00 a.m came on the dot, he told Thor that there was no one else right now that he would have liked to share this with. Had he been alone in his bed, without such a lover, he would have more than likely slept right through it.

No. No he wouldn’t have. He would more than likely be shaking against his pillow, wondering if this was the moment when he would die, when the breath would be stolen from his body in a more permanent way, leaving him an ancient, withered thing on his mattress. He would be wondering if this was the year that he would die, for men were never meant to be immortal or live through nearly as much as he had. He had been spared, but to be cursed or struck from any chance at having a place in Heaven was as good as a death-sentence. He would think himself a damned thing, bound by time and out of time all at once, unfortunate for missing his chance at something normal, at something permanent, a time with Peggy and whatever Bucky chose for his life. 

He wouldn’t have been able to see that today was more than just a chance to reflect on what had passed, for that time had come and gone. He wouldn’t have been able to see that today wasn’t just another day, ordinary in every form. There would be no clear-sight, foolish misery coloring his vision in grey no matter the streamers and decorations that would have covered the mansion on Tony’s none-too-gentle insistence on throwing him a party. He’d miss what was in front of him entirely, because there was no one to shake him from the tightly-wrapped cocoon that he had made of his life, complete with enough soul-searching to make even the most nostalgic and nomadic spirit weary. 

That was why he was thankful to Thor for this reality, and for so much more.

He rolled over to rest his head in the space between Thor’s neck and shoulder, the scent of the god’s soap of choice mingling with his naturally sweet and masculine aroma nothing short of a reminder of his belonging. It was the thing that he needed that he could never find the words for, the thing that he would never be able to name or attempt to shape, this reminder of being soothed and contrary-wise, that he was in turn soothing the god. 

The hand against the curvature of his hip was physically _there_ and proof that the both of them were alive, their warmth and body outlines upon the mattress the evidence of how they had endured all, strove and found far more than impasses of the heart and mind. 

This was real, true; they were alive. 

This would be a day that he wasn’t plagued by nightmares or by reminiscent haunts of that dangling, knife-sharp word of “what-if.” Any day that wasn’t spent in grim rumination was a day well-spent, which made it far past the ordinary.

Maybe, the lips against his ear whispered, the scruff of a neatly trimmed beard tickling his cheek all the while, it was time to start celebrating his life to the fullest of his abilities, beginning right now.

After all, he did have seventy years worth of birthdays to make up for.

The persistent buzzing over the mansion’s AI intercom system at 10 in the morning roused him from his dreamless slumber, sleep-heavy eyes seeking the source of the disturbance. There were no giant speakers on the walls or the door, nor were there buttons or gadgets that would make his head spin that could have made such a sound. 

“Morning guys. There’s breakfast downstairs of all sorts if you want it, or if you just want it sent up to your room, I volunteer Clint; I’ve seen Thor naked too many times and I don’t care for an eye-full today, especially when we have so much planned.” Thor’s rumbling laughter canceled out Steve’s urge to grumble and bury his head in the pillows. Had everyone seen Thor naked at some point or another? And planned? What plans?

The voice was Tony’s, making this unseen intercom system delivered straight from the heart of Stark technology. It figured that he wouldn’t be able to find it and just shut off Tony’s voice entirely, but the gesture was very kind, the kindest Tony Stark could be when promising bacon and eggs.

“Now, I know you didn’t really want something extravagant, but I didn’t hear you." Something that sounded like Bruce slapping Tony’s arm jostled the sound for a moment. “Alright fine, I didn’t listen because we both know how good I am at that. A guy only turns ninety-four once in his life and it’s cause to celebrate.” Something that sounded like a champagne bottle popping its clamped cork hissed through whatever room Tony and Bruce were in, and he heard what sounded like a good-natured chortle through the cloaked speaker-system. “So get out here and celebrate Rogers, we have a full agenda. I rented out a stadium, bought a petting zoo, and procured a blimp that will pass by the windows every five minutes that shows dancing girls saluting to your day of birth.”

Now he was up. “He didn’t.” Steve was fully nude as he all about stumbled out of bed, hastily grabbing what looked like Thor’s choice of sweatpants to cover himself. No matter how changed the century, he would never go to the window naked, despite the reasoning behind such an act or how seemingly “private” the mansion grounds claimed the land was.

He pressed his face to the glass, looking left and then right for a giant, egg-shaped balloon that showcased women on some technological do-hickie doing things in short outfits that had nothing whatsoever to do with innocent celebrating. There was nothing aside from the mid-morning sunlight to greet him. 

An average day, but not in the least. Ordinary without being mundane, a day of possibility. And Tony lying about gifts fell neatly into such a category.

Thor however had no qualms about sitting up in bed, stretching with a contented exhalation, and padding through the half-maze of their clothing to the window, fully nude. The warm cage of familiar arms wrapped around his hips, his body falling against Thor’s chest a reaction as automatic as breathing, conscious thought replaced with leaning into the towering heat that engulfed him, that greeted him with a silent good morning. 

Five minutes more of half-heartedly seeking a scandalous balloon prompted conversation, Thor having relished enough attention on his neck to make up for time spent without Thor’s lips on his skin.

“When you rose before me on this day, no matter how sweet the slip into slumber proved, I thought that a night-terror disturbed your sleep.” No matter if the both of them had been roused by Tony’s insistent tenor echoing in their heads, their present fear remained when either of them started awake suddenly: that the past would repeat, a past in which one of the both of them would be forced to endure the torment of their minds and what had transpired before once and then again, without end. There had been nothing thus far that proved that it was nothing more than a past, burning fear and it had remained simply as that: a trace of worry and nothing else. 

“I haven’t had a nightmare in months. It’s hard to be scared when there’s a big, strong guy next to you all the time.” The only things he dreamt about lately were hard to discern, difficult to place into proper words. There was as Thor had proffered as the word of choice before, peace there, in the world that was entirely _his_ , a world of imaginings in which the photograph Peggy gave him smiled, a time in dreams when he had been praying and felt Bucky press his physical hand to his shoulder and say that it was alright, a corner of his thoughts in which Elksine waved at him from his place in the lab and told him he did good. Images that burned bright and true behind his eyes, granted at the end by a pressing of very real warmth to his hip, representing that in this bed he was not alone, that if he needed it, he would be shaken gently awake and asked to regale what he had seen if he wanted to open up.

Thor laughed at the comment, a laugh that was free from the austerity that painted his inquiry with the doubt of what had passed between the two of them. “And contrary, there is no trouble I have in sleeping. Your presence erases any thought of my undoing by memory’s plight and the woes of what has passed.”

Both knew that Thor stated that because it hadn’t always been that way with him. The night Thor professed what had happened to Loki, Steve awoke to Thor nearly tearing the mattress apart with his bare hands, as if he were seeking something with a desperation that no barrier, be it feather-filled or steel-plated could keep him from. 

He had roused the god as gently as he could and was met with a hint of the savagery that colored Thor’s actions a bleeding and unending red, the blood he would surely spill to have his brother with him, alive even. There was nothing Steve could say, no word that would bring his brother back, nothing that could reset what had been done, what was dead and gone. There was however the assurance of his arms, arms that Thor claimed he could find solace in on any given day or night or hour in-between, the way that he was so certain his grip would remain tireless and ever-patient to the trembling god in his embrace, knowing that if he pressed hard enough he would not break the god’s bones. 

All that time he gave an honest attempt at light thoughts, not wishing to blame a now deceased brother for the cause of the love of his life’s tears and night-time grief. He succeeded and thanked God that his lover could not read his mind. There was no need to blame anyone; there was only the desire to move forward, to get through the shadow nights to the surely golden dawn that would light their way. Day by day, one step at a time, one shake and nudge to the waking world in which neither would leave each other’s sides. 

The night after, there had been no nightmares, no ripping of the sheets or padding of their mattress. There had been only slumber, only the repeated mantra that Steve was there for Thor, would be there for as long as he wanted him.

To which Thor had replied, “Always. Until the end of my life, and then in Valhalla you will be mine still.”

Nothing grim touched them that night, or for many weeks afterwards. There was no need for a psychiatrist, for medication, for trying to get others to understand situations that they could only grasp at the fleeting impressions of themselves. They needed only one another for that, for they had gone so openly and naked before one another time and again that there was no other that could help them with this onward struggle, a struggle to find a better frame of mind. 

Fully and truly, they had helped one another out of personal griefs and would continue to do just that. 

“But no more of ill-thoughts: to the matter of this praised day, I wish to save my gift to you for later, my love. I do not want for it to outshine the rest, but I would prefer it in such an order. At present, I do not think it can compete with promises of gyrating women in your colors of choice.”

Steve chuckled and resisted the urge to knock his head against the glass several times at the reminder of that terrible, foreboding balloon. “Tony means well. He just has a funny way of showing it. Also, the gift probably will. As horrible as that is to admit, your gift will be different than the rest because you’re just you.”

Lips curved into a smile at his neck, presenting two truths: he had succeeded not only in stroking the god’s ego, but in making Thor feel good about himself and his excellence at gift-giving. This day would be more than being forced to sit through songs and exaggerated joy and wondering just how much others had spent on him; it was a day that was solely for him, something that his mind and heart tried to assure him that he deserved, that he had earned, that he was cared for and cherished to the point where others were willing to devote time and money on him. 

“I am no other and will remain as such, for this is what you cherish and love. Besides, I can no more impersonate Lady Natasha than Stark can master the art of subtle presentation.”

Steve laughed, long and hard at that statement, his very outline met with a contentment that all but seeped into the frame of his body first, skin and hair follicles coated with what was sure to be the joy of the day, his blood set to sing, lungs filling with inner-mirth.When had he last laughed like this? When had he felt so alive, so innocent, the promise of such a day bringing nothing but an unknown that would surprise him in the way that he loved most? 

Not since he had woke up, in both the figurative and literal sense, to what the world had to offer. Shades of grey could be beautiful things. 

As it turned out, the horrible balloon had been little more than many balloons that had been scattered throughout the kitchen, the rubber of the balloon reflecting many women giving him salutes with their bare thighs, while the clothes they wore could hardly compensate for being labeled as clothing. He had told Tony that maybe if he applied himself, he would be able to find a cure for cancer with the way he paid so close detail to every color of the leathery, shimmery clothing. 

The presents had come first before the breakfast - Steve had insisted that he could wait until after breakfast, but Tony would have none of it - and he had reluctantly complied, sitting at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair to wait for whatever manner of surprises he would find. 

“Are you going to sing to me?” Clint chuckled, revealing what looked like a harmonica from his back-pocket, gave it a quick look, and proceeded to toss it to the couch.

“Actually, I can’t play the harmonica. But sure, yeah, let’s do it!” The look on Thor’s face from his place against the adjacent chair was a mixture of disbelief and utter confusion, his eyes scrunched together, as if his mind was working at lightning-fast speed to come up with a song on a whim to sing to him. 

Before Steve could reach over and say it was alright, or quickly tell him the lyrics to the song he couldn‘t have possibly known, Tony piped in, chugging champagne all the while. “Ah! Wait! Thor probably doesn’t know the song, do you big guy?” 

Two minutes, a napkin with the lyrics and a surprisingly harmonious group of voices later granted him with the birthday song, all the while a cake was lowered from the ceiling on what appeared to be robotic claws, revealing a butter-cream cake, his name scrawled, a single candle in the middle of the confection.

Never had he enjoyed being the center of attention, especially when it was a matter of media necessity. He didn’t think that he’d ever get used to having all eyes on him, on his face and outfit, ready and salivating for his flaws, for whatever he didn’t want shown. 

This was diametric circumstance at its finest, because the eyes that were on his were gentle, genuine, filled with the true want to sing to him - no matter how asinine or childish the concept was, for it was tradition - pinching his heart with how deeply he had been wrong in the beginning. 

He was needed here more than he was wanted. There was no way anyone could fake these expressions, Tony with his inebriated yet steady gaze, Bruce and the way he began clapping with Clint at the end, Natasha and her illusory yet present smile, and of course, Thor’s eager expression, his eyes never leaving his for one moment. He belonged here, of that he was most certain, and it was enough to set his soul afloat, the fact that he’d found anchors. 

Anchors, like the way Thor reached over to take his hand unabashedly, his grip firm and set on providing Steve a sense of comfort he never believed he’d find, or experience again. 

If anyone saw tears in his eyes as he blew out the single candle, no one commented, and for that, he was thankful. 

“This is my favorite cake. How’d you know?” Tony tapped his head, then impersonated a French accent, twirling an imaginary mustache as he sought silverware, claiming that in a past-life, he was a baker named Sebastian Jean-Pierre and he specialized in cakes of this design.

“But enough of ze past; onwards to ze presents!” 

Natasha stated something in perfect French then, and Clint clutched the table, his laughter infectious. 

Bruce handed him a thick bundle, all sparkly wrapping paper and a gold bow in the middle, his smile sheepish and forthcoming all at once. “Happy Birthday. Hope you like them.” 

Steve accepted, proclaiming in earnest that he would, and tore into the paper with an exuberance he hadn’t had since he was twelve and there was more than two presents under the tinsel tree in his living room. 

There were five books total, some on science and others on how world view’s had changed, pertaining to philosophy and breaking down history in easy to understand segments, referencing something called “pop-culture” and all the idiosyncrasies of each era. Something much-needed, something Steve could see himself reading with earnest. 

“Oh wow. Thank you, thank you so much.” Steve set them in a neat stack, affectionately rubbing his hand over the covers. Bruce ducked his head, his smile a present and easy thing. 

Tony cleared his throat, placing a small box on the table, right beside a slice of cake that had been sliced for everyone, cake that Thor had begun eating only when Steve said that he could help himself. 

“Now this might not be what you’re expecting.” Steve wondered just what the hell was in this box. If it was two plane tickets to some remote corner of somewhere in Vegas with a chapel, or a credit card with an endless limit, he wouldn’t know what to do at all. “You have this whole Steve-in-headlights look right now. Just open it, it won’t bite, and it’s nothing bad. Breathe. Hee hoo hee. You with me?”

Steve’s eyes flitted over Tony’s, catching his expectant gaze, noting no hint of mischief there. He guessed he wasn’t used to Tony behaving quite so well when it came to him. 

He opened the box, noting what appeared to be a small silver...thing. That was really the only word for it, the thing in the box that was coated in lustrous metal. 

“Now, this can do anything. Anything at all. A sonic-screw driver of sorts.” Bruce massaged the space between his eyes, murmuring something about Tony being a closet fan of Doctor Who after all - who was the Doctor and why was he called Who? - all the while Tony kept talking, explaining that if he forgot a password, the keys to his motorcycle or anything, this device could open any door for him. It could also count as a can opener, a paper-weight, a dense enough weight about it that could be used as a weapon, a pen, pencil, and a true-and-blue screw driver.

“Just point and aim, and the device will do the work.”

“Thank you. Thank you for making something for me, for taking the time to...”

Tony, none-too-gently, clapped his hand over Steve’s mouth. “Hey. Enough of that. Enjoy yourself today, buddy. You’re very welcome and all that.” Tony released his hold on Steve’s mouth, wiping his hand on the seat of his pants, turning to face Thor afterwards. “That, what I just did, that doesn’t make you jealous or anything, right? Because I just want you to know that  
I’m rooting for you two and I have every intention of throwing you two a wedding one day.”

Thor tilted his head, still chewing on his slice of cake, his mouth coated with a hint of frosting. “Not in the least, Anthony.” With the way the god held his head, pronounced his tone and eyed Steve from the corner of his eye, it was as good as any proclamation that there was nothing Tony Stark - even if he was _the_ Tony Stark - could do to interfere or harm what they shared. 

“Good. Thanks. Thank you. Phew.” Tony leaned against the table, his face all contentment and his ever-present smirk settled against his lips, stating that lovebirds ever would be lovebirds. 

Natasha chose that moment to walk over, place a piece of paper by his plate, and kiss his cheek when he asked what was on the paper. 

“Coordinates Cap’. Best place on Earth.” She gave him a wink, her full lips turning into a gentle smile. “For you and Thor.” A trip, the best place on Earth, a mystery. And he had always loved mysteries. Steve figured that this was her way of repaying her indifference earlier with this present - and though she had nothing whatsoever to atone for, Steve appreciated the effort and the product nonetheless. 

While Thor lavished Natasha with praise for her generosity and consideration to include him on this special day, Clint placed a small, quarter-sized device by his fork. 

“Be careful with this. It’s an explosive and a stun. It’ll attach to your shield when you want it to hit or temporarily incapacitate your target.” Clint clapped his shoulder, eye-balling his slice of cake then, shoving part of it in his mouth. “You’re a good guy,” his frosting-laden voice proclaimed, earning him a good-natured “hoo-rah” and another “Happy Birthday" from the team, Tony drinking and Natasha lifting her fist with Thor for emphasis on his goodness.

“Now, I lied about the petting zoo, because I didn’t know if you were allergic to goats or not, but I wasn’t kidding about renting out a stadium downtown. It’s ours. We’ll see baseball, have a cook-out and watch the fireworks. Because, as it stands, your patriotism allowed you to be born on the 4th of July.” 

At that moment, the sound of rubber grating against glass alerted Steve to the truth: that Tony really _had_ bought a blimp. Without the dancing girls, but a blimp nonetheless, and it was outside the window right then, attracting attention and giving Fury another ulcer mixed with an aneurysm with the amount of unnecessary publicity it granted the Avengers, even if one of their own was turning ninety-four today. Public outing or not, there was a blimp there with his name on it. 

“Thank you. I’ve never ridden on a blimp before. And let me guess, you rented the baseball team?”

“Better. I bought them for the night. The Yankees and I have a strictly professional relationship however.” Steve imagined Tony walking right up to the coach and throwing money at him, asking for permission to use the team for the night, while the fireworks were going off. “The rival team too, someone I’ve never heard of, but it’ll be a hell of a game at the Yankee Stadium.”

The Yankee Stadium. He rented out the Yankee Stadium for him, just because it was his birthday. 

_'Breathe. God, help me breathe.’_ “Thank you, really, thank you. Are you...”

“Don’t make me shut you up again. It’s fine, really.” Steve swore that for half a minute, thirty seconds that made Bruce shake his head at the grin Tony managed to wrest from his lips, Tony looked like Howard Stark, like the father who believed in him and had a large hand in making him who he was. Not what he was, because he was not an object nor some instrument to be of use to the peace of the world, but an actual person, a human being with thoughts, feelings, and elated emotions mixing with a general anxiety about today. 

Tony looked younger. In fact, they all looked younger, Clint licking the frosting from his plate, Natasha shoving his shoulder in a good-natured show of affection, Bruce grinning away in that subtle way of his, and Thor watching this all with a bemused, tender affection, the kind that camaraderie was akin to bringing. 

It really was fine. It was better than fine, it was perfect. More perfect than he believed today would be had he been alone, celebrating by himself in a way that would have by no means been healthy in the least. 

“And wait until you see the state-of-the-art stadium technology. You’re gonna love it. Big enough for all of us.” 

He would take what was offered to him with good-graces and the proof in the care that was bestowed to him, in every incredulous and innocuous way that the group was known to give. There were two sides to gift-giving after all. 

“Well, for now, we’ll leave you two alone. To get to the private gifts and all that, and whatever that may entail.” 

Before Steve could speak up and say that no, Thor’s gift was coming later, he and Thor were alone in the kitchen. 

“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Thor squeezed his hand, his smile endlessly tender, directed to him alone. 

“Celebrations are never a thing to be feared, only enjoyed with endless merriment. Especially if the celebration is directed unto you, toward a horizon of cheer, drink, and gifts that mirror the hearts of those who you call friends.” Thor took a moment to stand, kneeling before Steve on one knee, his fist over his chest. Another pledge of fealty that paralleled their first night, before they knew each other, before they knew how darkness and terror could bind them? “I pledge to make this a day, with my future gift, to balance and bless you, my love, with the joy that you rightly deserve.”

“Where I call home, there is a tradition between lovers that when their day of birth comes, an extravagant feast occurs until the end of the day. Such music and gifts, succulent fruits and drinks that my description gives little in regards to credence. In the night-hours, the lover makes it their personal duty to grant their loved one a single act, a single gift that so represents their affection. For a god’s love is a mighty thing, an important thing, even to gods amongst gods.” 

Thor took his hand, placing a kiss against his knuckles, the god’s eyes closing with the act, as if he wished to memorize and commit the taste of his skin to memory, to bury it within his lips, branding this moment in his heart. “I vow to any listening ear that I shall make this special for you, as special as one such as yourself rightly deserves. Free from hesitance, misery, indecision, free from any ill-gained uncertainties; for this I am certain: I will grant you color, the peace that you have told me that I give to you, as well as a thrill for as long as you will have me.”

Anything he could have said would have been pitifully derived, half-concocted forms of gratitude that slipped from his lips, tumbling and twisting to the god’s ears. That wasn’t what he wanted to give Thor, the chaos of his thoughts, the tongue-tied proclivity that trailed after him every-time Thor went so openly before him. 

He went to his knees, his hands resting on their natural place on Thor’s neck, lips seeking only to find the mouth he was looking for. He tasted the sweetness of his favorite frosting, the truth of the day not being anything to fear, as well as immortal provisions for his spirit, his soul aching, searching with a trembling hand for something tangible, sedate and sturdy for however long he would live. 

And if the look Thor gave him was anything to go by, it would be an eternity, layered upon the beautiful and never feared thought of forever. 

If he was to live, live with the certainty that it would be a long, long life, he would have in Thor an eternal companion. 

“I have no doubts; you’ve already given me all that and so much more.” 

_ststststst_

The game was, as Tony promised, fantastic. There were personal chefs in the stadiums, serving up an endless amount of hot-dogs, hamburgers, and bratwursts, catering to any whim of their stomach, which Thor used to his full capacity. Eventually, they ran out of hot-dogs.

Steve had never known Natasha to be a fan of the sport, but whenever the team scored a home-run against the rival team, she began shouting in a mixture of Russian and English, startling everyone but Clint, who laughed and drank a lot of beer, humming Happy Birthday all the while. 

There was enough room for Bruce, who occasionally stepped out and got fresh air when the noise became too much for him, and when he returned, he always looked refreshed and asked who was scoring, because his knowledge of sports amounted to playing basketball in his elementary school gym class. 

Tony made a bet - which didn’t surprise Steve in the least - about the Yankees winning with some poor person that severely underestimated Tony wanting to prove that he was right, which bought Tony some island off the course of Hawaii. Clint just laughed about it, claiming the guy was a sap for even trying. 

Steve wanted to ask just what it was that Tony and Clint made a bet about - with money nonetheless, God knew Tony had enough of it - when it came to the early stages of him and Thor, far before he and Thor were considered a socially-known “item” of sorts, but he figured it out with all the subtlety of a slap in the face. It was _when_ he and Thor would become a socially-known item, not _if_ and apparently, Tony thought they would come clean far sooner than Clint had. 

He supposed it really didn’t matter how fast or how soon it had happened, so long as it had happened. There was nothing worse than hanging in limbo, in the knife-sharp’s edge of an ambivalence that was granted by yourself and your own shortcomings and misgivings that doubt could provide. 

Everything was still in the learning-stages, a work-in-progress that was part of some larger learning curve that he was more than willing to participate in, more than willing to try his hand at, no matter any reluctant of hesitant part of him that stated that he should just go where it’s quiet, avoid loud, spontaneous baseball fans, colors and streamers and cakes that were handed on him from Heaven by robotic, Stark-made hands. 

The message was loud and clear, a message that overflowed with life, reaching out and shoving him in the most gentle and tender way possible toward the middle of the baseball field, because Tony let slip that it was his birthday, and that Captain freakin’ America should pitch and know what it was like to feel the turf of the field. 

Instead of politely claiming that although it was awfully nice of them to consider him to be the guy to throw the pitch, the special pitch, he would stay in his seat, no matter the jeers of those around him, claiming that he was chosen, that he was worth such an honor, he accepted the privilege more easily than he could believe, because he earnestly wanted to.

Thor stood in the middle of the encourage-filled half-circle that had become the Avengers, his arms crossed and head tilted, eyes steady on his own, an indulgent smile turning his lips to the skies. This was a stance that let Steve know that Thor knew he was worthy of this, to throw a ball to an experienced athlete, an honor that was bestowed to the privileged few, which he had somehow become in the past two minutes. 

“Aim straight and true, my love,” were the parting words Thor gave him, along with a wink that made the heat rise to Steve’s face. 

He held his tongue at bay all the way to the field, knowing that though he normally would have avoided things like this, things that threw him into the heart of attention, all eyes on his retreating form - and more than likely a few camera phones with camcorder capabilities - as he took the stairs down and down to the center of the field, his grin light and easy, tugging his lips to the darkening night sky by his own desire to smile.

He threw the pitch as easy as he was able to, the man up to bat hit the ball sky-high, and his friends went wild. Because at the end, at this end that felt more like a beginning in every sense of the word, he was as worthy as he allowed himself to believe, his life was filled with the people he chose to make part of his life and every-day existence, and there was no greater time than now. 

He had slept enough. And if it took a god who gripped him in an ecstatic, cheerful embrace upon his return to the luxury seating to shake him to life, then that was what it took. 

Gifts came in two parts: how well you received and thanked the giver, along with what you chose to do with what was granted yourself. And with this unexpected, twisted and often violent concept of life he knew, he chose to live, live to the highest extent that he could. Not out of desperation, he figured as he very publicly and without fear kissed Thor openly on the mouth, or out of some deep-felt fear that he would be rendered of little use to the nation, which meant that he had to make the most of the _now,_ but out of his own choices to make it something wonderful. 

Because there was nothing quite so wonderful as being around people who you were beginning to know and enjoy the company of, nothing quite like the levity that was awarded when a god laughed against your mouth with the happiness you could provide him, as well as the thought that you weren’t despairing about time that passed without having any say in it. 

“Steve, you’ve seen fireworks, right?”

“Of course. I’m ninety-four, apparently, not that old.”

“Just checking. You’re still over-the-hill though. Ladies and gentlemen, Happy mother fucking Fourth of July.”

Before Steve could reprimand Tony for his language, because this holiday was what made the  
U.S independent and free from the title of the 13 colonies forever, explosions colored the sky the shades of dreams. 

There were eruptions that looked like multi-colored dandelions, seeds drifting out and imploding into miniature rockets, scattering through the sky with smoke, coating the tapestry of a darkness he had once feared with pigments of indescribable beauty. His breath was stolen when the sounds went off, when the show created shapes, the whistling noises snowballing into star-song, dispersing only to begin again. Greens that became gold, reds that faded into blues, slivers of white light striking up and beyond, vanishing into spheres of orange that shattered the night. 

Everywhere there was light, everywhere there was sound, color and chaos combined to create something he hadn’t seen in far too long, a simple beauty of celebration that he had banished to his happy memories, to that treasure trove when the world was innocent and untouched by war and what it would mean for the nation. Now he had something more to add to that capsule, if not unlocking it and exposing it to all sections of his life now and what it would mean to be exposed, to be let loose. 

He found himself struck silent for the first ten rounds, and then he came alive, whooping and hollering, clapping like a mad-man, noting that the national anthem was playing all the while, the lights that came and went stained forever red, white, and blue. Beautiful colors, a beautiful namesake and only a burden if he allowed it to become one. 

Synchronized lights now, in half-circles that unleashed small circles of fire of all shades of the rainbow, filling his eyes with tears that he made no effort to hide. Because right now, he was young, young and with friends with someone who had proven time and again that he loved him, youth spattering the skies with hard-won, succinct victory but artistic allure, a beauty that he reveled in, absorbed and felt soaking his skin, burrowing this moment of clarity and euphoria into his veins, embedded in the stream of his blood that let him know that he was most certainly not alone, that this was a fresh beginning, a beginning by fire, by warmth, by the color of a certainty that helped him breathe, breathe air un-chilled by some corner of the ocean.

Peace was abundant here, a thriving thing. He was alive, living a better life than he never believed he was capable of. He had gotten his wish, to be strong and to do what others couldn’t. That didn’t mean that he had to go at it alone, by the book of solitude that never resulted in anything good. 

“Happy Birthday, Captain.”

_ststststst_

There had always been a small forest in the back of the mansion, a forest filled with trees, a small amount of wildlife, and plenty of privacy given by the blackness of the night. A night filled with the present sounds of rockets, of fire-call in the distance, but private enough to have a conversation. 

Or receive a gift, the one that Steve had no doubt was reserved for the last for a reason. After all, at some point or another, he had stated that he enjoyed surprises. 

“Never have I seen you more at ease, more open than tonight, Steven.” Steve laced his fingers in Thor’s as they walked from the back porch, beginning the easy trek to the forest. 

“It was fantastic. I couldn’t help myself. I can’t believe I cried, but well, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen something so beautiful. I don’t remember the last time I saw fireworks.” His smile was something bittersweet then. “I guess it gets easier to be open when you’re finally beginning to feel comfortable.”

Steve had a feeling Thor was smiling with endless abandon, happiness coloring the god’s eyes the shades of elation. All because of something he had said, with something he had done. He was making the guy happy, and that was a big deal, because they were both still grappling with the thought of laying the past and all the horrors of that truth to rest. It made sense to celebrate these times where happiness was present, times when they could help one another with whatever it was they needed.

_‘God, thank you for helping us through this.’_

“True words, Steven. There was comfort all around today, and I observed that it was all pointed towards you.” Steve turned and noted that he had been right, that Thor was smiling in that tender way of his that let him know that there was nothing the god needed right then than the simplicity his touch provided, than his company and presence. Comfort in a steady courtship, comfort that was more than stability. Comfort in simply being. 

“I just can’t believe there was ever a time when I doubted I could be close to them. I mean, look what they did for me. You just don’t go through the trouble of baking a cake and getting a present for someone who you don’t really care all that much for.”

“That should be proof of how sacred you are, Steven. How sacred you are in the eyes of those who glimpse you, who witness you in the thick of battle and are struck with blatant, blinding awe. How there is a certain light you emit, a ray of hope that has little hope of being extinguished by any foul phantom that chases your goodness, drawing all near to you. Drawing myself near to you.”

They were halfway to the cluster of trees when they stopped, their legs stopping ceasing to move altogether in mid-stride. Steve supposed that this was what it felt like to feel change rippling through you, to feel that stimulating inertia of falling, of that uplift and ascension to a place you never once thought could exist, unfathomable in the depths of a sorrow un-pierced, far too shackled within yourself to consider breath, a shattering, a plunge into still-born delight. 

Until a god delved where no one else dared brush upon, breaking through hardened resolve, immersing himself into all the hurt and making it his mission to not only save him from a war that he couldn’t win, but the minor battles as well, the gun-fire that awoke and fractured his sleep, the god that refused to leave his bedside even when he was troubled himself. A dual remedy, an analgesic that purged wounds with steadily-driven cathartic speed, drive and concision coloring his world, gray, black, and white fleeing to the shadow-halls where they belonged. 

He owed Thor so much, if not everything. He probably wouldn’t have stayed here if Thor hadn’t heard him scream, crying out in the night on words he couldn’t remember any longer, pushing his way into what he feared without a hint of preamble or warning of a life-changing rift that would be his saving grace, his own personal redemption that he had no idea that he’d even needed. 

Their arms were around one another, hands resting on the places they loved the most, Thor with his hands on that little spot in-between his shoulder blades and his hands on the back of Thor’s neck, bodies pressed against one another until Steve swore that they were one in the same, that there was no such thing as being separate, amity and union making their beating pulses one. 

“You know, I never have any way of replying to what you tell me. You always have a way of making me out to be this great person, ever since the beginning. Especially then, even when you didn’t know anything about me. How can I thank you? How can I even begin?”

There was thunder that had nothing to do with a gathering of clouds above them; it was just the laughter of the god, of the god that proclaimed his love for him in words that would echo in his heart until his dying days. 

“Gratitude need not always be spoken.” Thor placed his hand on his face, bumping their noses together. “Your silence is as resonating and descriptive as verbal eloquence upon any word-smith’s tongue. And your actions speak volumes eternal.” 

His smile was immediate, sedating him fully, any hint of final worry he had leaving fully then. The words were not spoken to placate him into silence, but to usher him into knowing that he was doing right, that there was nothing he was doing wrong in what they had. 

Their kiss was soft, assurance pouring from his mouth like the words he meant to speak, the way he yearned to open up about every nuance that scarred him. And with the kiss that was returned, it was gentle insistence that this was more than enough, that there was no need for such doubts. 

In his ears, there was the distinct noise of a crash, of something that was being torn asunder, again and again. What was it? More fireworks overhead, coloring their world? A thunderstorm that Thor commanded? Or, was it the leveling of the ground, the shifting of plates and movement of the world beneath his heels, roots and verdant green shooting forward, up and up, towards the light, towards color and certainty, towards every notion of a future? He had always wanted a way to fill that emptiness, the void that was a given by being separate from others in strength and experience; by that want, he was granted a godly reprieve. 

Thor pressed his hand against his shoulder, pulling him close, separated only by their clothing, skin rubbing against skin, passion undulating and a very palpable thing, lashing them with what felt right, with what awoke and shook them from reveries that held them in devastation’s grip, fighting with every breath to feel better, to find the energy to smile no matter the lives that had been lost, the mistakes that had costed more than their ill-spent pride. 

“My gift to you, my love.” Thor removed his hand from its spot against his back, the slice of godly metal shimmering through the air with a shaking, sibilant tenor. The hammer was in his hand before Steve could open his eyes, and when he did, he was blind-sighted by sheer beauty. 

The fireworks had been duplicated, ensnaring the both of them in a dome-array of sounds, the boom and whistle of rockets of all colors and sizes circling around them, bathing them in the heat of the pyrotechnics, tendrils of smoke and the burn of cinders tickling his nose. 

“How...what...” He gave up trying to say anything after a moment, settling his body against Thor’s, awestruck into a silence that made his heart soar. The gods could capture beauty, duplicate it at their beck and call, for the whims of their lover’s pleasure and utter enjoyment. What did it feel like he wondered, to have such force of mind, such personal strength that was matched by the truth of the title god, how it felt to be able to summon the elements of the storms with an ancient, enchanted tool that was an extension of one’s own will? 

It must have felt like this, the power and energy of the beauty that seeped into his bones once more, the moment re-lived in the subtle shake of the colors that were now solely his own. 

He had turned to say thank you, turned only to realize that he was crying once more, crying and cheering and squeezing Thor until he thought that he was surely going to hurt the god. Thor only responded by saying, “Happy Birthday, my love. And, there is one other part. Prepare yourself.” 

Steve noted the intensity of the kiss, the crackle that made rockets flare up into the sky, booming and crashing a splash of color all around, the background noise to the sights that were being written behind his eyelids. 

There were towering, gilded spires that reached up, far beyond anything gold should have had the ability to do. To do so would be to touch the sky, to be gods. This was Asgard then, behind his eyes and revealed as being a very real, very pure thing. 

Thor was showing him his world, amidst a beauty that he had successfully stirred in his soul for the second time that night, all the while searing his mouth with a kiss that exhilarated him, pumping him full with something without bounds, without mortal limits. 

For the moment they remained as immortal spirits, tangled and twisting, shouting as they sped up and through rivers that emitted steam, immersing themselves in the beauty of a nature un-tainted by anything man-made, tumbling through halls of golden majesty, large sentinels with weapons keeping pathways safe against ever-clear skies, summer an eternal and thriving entity here. 

Songs, melodies. Many people seated at a table who suddenly stood up, cheering and raising jewel-encrusted goblets to the direction of where he felt himself falling, appreciation and acceptance in the eyes of these beings of legend and now, pure truth. Thor’s friends and family, clapping at him, seeing him in this sight in-between sight. Thor’s friends and family, accepting him as their beloved prince’s consort.

A sense of perpetual belonging. That was the gift.

A raven-haired woman pounding at the table. A giant man with an unruly beard raising what appeared to be a turkey leg in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other. A man with a face of angles, clapping and easing out of his typical austere behavior to do so. Another man with a beard and thick mustache clapping, chanting something he couldn’t quite hear. 

And at the head of a table beyond description stood a woman with sun-woven hair piled into coils, braids twisting around her waist with her clapping, tears filling her vision, her body enclosed with silk and natural beauty, alongside her husband, a man with a settled eye-patch over his right eye, his hair snow and silver all at once, wisdom in his one eye that was matched evenly by the fortitude that layered him with more glory than poets could describe. 

Thor’s home, laid bare for him to see, laid bare for him to be accepted, cheered, and given a feast in his honor. He wondered if in time, he would get to see these sights in the physical, obliterating any thought of there being something keeping Asgard from him, from the thought of a true world beyond the stars that were held aloft by his belief in them. 

He blinked and was back on Earth, or Midgard as Thor knew it, blown thoroughly away by what the day offered, by the sanctity of what was given and accepted in a far more profound way than he could have ever imagined. 

They were greeted by the ebbing traces of the show of fire that colored their world red-violet, tendrils of smoke sweet, the night-air settling them into a high that left them reeling, breathless and panting against where they wound up tangled in each other’s skins, hands everywhere and mouths against half-parted lips, whispering benediction and praise. 

“That was...that...your home. You showed me your home, didn’t you?”

“Aye. As we speak and lay, there is a celebration in your honor, towards the soldier that has captured the heart of Asgard.” Somewhere beyond the stars, there were people - no, _gods_ \- rooting for him, praying and giving their blessing upon his life, allowing for them to be with their prince and soon-to-be king. 

He was never alone. He had never been alone.

“Thank you. Thank you.” His breath hitched then, and for the third time that day, he wept with an abandon that he hadn’t had since he was a child, his breathing jagged and raspy, baptizing his sights with the clear-cut vision of the god who gripped him tight, holding him close.

“Shhh. Hush, my love, hush.” Repetition, traditions, something good and whole, the promise of betterment that began with the start of the day, or when you wanted it to start. 

No more tears. 

Steve wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, focusing on the end of the show that washed his vision with the clarity of an innocence that eased him away from any fraction of loss, of what had been stolen, of everything wrong and unjust; he had just been given the kiss of life after all. 

“Thank you. For everything. For helping me through, hell, for helping me live again.”

“A thousand times more would I have done all for you. Nay, two-thousand. For the remainder of my life, my love.” Thor’s hand settled against his face, his gaze nothing less than the tender light that buoyed his spirit, lifting it far and beyond the pinpricks of white against the summer sky, to some Heaven where he hoped every one who had died had found their way to. 

_’Thank you God, for helping me through this.’_

_ststststst_

There were no haunts; not in the crevices in the walls as they prepared for bed, not embedded in the fibers of the carpet that they padded barefoot against to get to the cool comfort of the sheets. The lights went off, and the only shadows that remained were the natural ones. 

Warmth was found, heat placed against chests, fingertips stroking the hot furl of skin against shower-fresh abdomens, eliciting subtle moans between saliva-slick teeth, lips forming the name of a lover that would remain, that would help him find answers, that would be his genial encouragement in battle and in the tenderness of arms against his back, holding him together when everything threatened to unravel him.  
Timeless comfort was found when Thor grunted against his mouth, whispering that the loss he had endured had been in some sense, necessary. Had it not been, had time not paved this path for them, they wouldn’t be there right then, finding intimacy before a night that had once plagued them with the thought of nightmares, of screaming against the moonlight that so taunted them with rest. They slept fine now, better than before, the best sleep of their life. 

There were some pledges that Steve was thankful he had taken, a vow that bound him to his own characteristic, guiding him to the driving force behind everything he had found, towards the home he had always yearned for after his awakening. Never would he be without a home, without any sense of comfort. 

It was in the limbo of summer that they fell asleep, murmuring to one another about how they got to this point, about reminiscences that colored their dreams with flashes of red-violet and dandelion fireworks, of the smiles of strangers that became their brothers and sisters, of times that were good and pure, times and truths that let them slip into easy, contented slumber.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have a problem sleeping again.” Thor turned his head, his skin gold-washed by the sun’s light, eyes glistening with his awakening. 

“Never? Even if I was to roll on top of you,” Thor did just that, rolling on top of him, connecting their hips with a slight forward gyration, eliciting a surprised yelp from his mouth, one that made Thor laugh “ lean forward and ask for you to share my bed for all time?”

For all time... _for all time_. 

“Are you...” Thor nodded, his eyes austere, glimmering with unabashed certainty. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I do.” 

Steve wrapped his legs around Thor’s hips, lifting his head to seal their resolution with a kiss. Not the kiss that would happen at the altar that Tony would more than likely have a field-day finding, but one that all-but dripped with the truth of following through, of moving forward. 

Never would he go to bed alone again. Never would he be alone in another’s company, not when the radiant smile of the god that pledged his fealty to him was within arm’s reach. 

“I had wanted to ask this of you for many weeks now, when I knew I was certain. But with the light of this day fire, stealing any thought of the darkness that threatened us, I found it more...fitting.” Thor flashed a smile, rocking to his left, gripping Steve until they knew not where their shapes ended and one began, unity a thriving, skin-soft entity here. 

They fit. They fit because they had become broken. But they were knitted now, as one person in two bodies, made whole during these quiet times in the early morning right before they dozed off once again, their minds remaining free from fresh damage. 

Sleep remained a true, mercifully beautiful reality, protecting them from anything their mind could inspire. 

And, on the night of their wedding - one that Tony had quite the hand in preparing - they found that they had never slept more soundly. 

_The End_

~-~-~

_“...and if we could float away,_  
Fly up to the surface and just start again  
And lift off before trouble just erodes us in the rain  
Just erodes us and see roses in the rain...” 


End file.
